


A break in routine

by palmmutations (eggwriter)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Consent, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Enemies to...?, Hate Sex, M/M, Sexual Content, Tension, Trans Jonathan Sims, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 12:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21730933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggwriter/pseuds/palmmutations
Summary: Martin isn't responding.The archive workers keep dropping one by one, and Jon bitterly decides to quit sitting by passively watching and actually act. explicit rating
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Peter Lukas/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 41
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire document can be blamed on Jon's Orpheus-complex –– it was going to be pure self indulgence but then Martin happened.

> 9:18 AM || Tuesday , February 20th 2018
> 
> from: _jonathan.sims@magnusinstitute.com_
> 
> to: _martin.blackwood@magnusinstitute.com, mkblackw00d@gmail.com_
> 
> Martin,
> 
> I found your personal email in the Institute personnel files. Snooping behavior is something I would like to have left behind, but you’ve left me very little choice but to take somewhat unprofessional measures. I hope that at least _one_ of your addresses receive this, and that you bother to read it.
> 
> I understand that things have been difficult, and I apologize. I really need to speak with you. Please.
> 
> Jon

Expecting an answer barely an hour after sending is ridiculous, of course, but Jon still refreshes in gloomy hope.

Nothing. The screen continues to emanate its stale greenish glow, the pixels in the corner blinking ever so slightly in the wrong colour in a testament to the Institute’s antiquated technique. Georgie has more than a few times told him that the cold light of the screen is bad for his eyes, that it offsets the human circadian rhythm. The Institute computers had been too old for any type of software for that purpose, and he hadn’t bothered with the advice for his laptop seeing as it would take a _lot_ more than some colour tinting to fix his sleep schedule.

Jon had imagined it would be less stressful to worry about one singular person rather the fate of the whole world, but the inability to contact Martin fills him with more dread than the looming threat of the Unknowing ever did. It’s probably selfish, being more worried about a single man than he was about billions of people, but it’s just another thing he adds to the list of moral dilemmas he’ll have to solve once all of this is over. If it ever ends, of course.

Without the infrequent knocking on the Archive door and Martin leaning in to ask if Jon wants anything, the hallways suddenly feel so very lonely. Definitely intentional on account of the Lukas’ pedigree, but Jon discovers himself to be _missing _Martin’s annoying constant hovering, always so eager to make sure everyone is alright and making polite conversation. Never would he have thought he’d miss Martin of all people, but a lot of things have changed.

It wasn’t always this lonely, was it? The Institute wasn’t always this large and this imposing, with its cafeteria this empty and the noise level of the inner wing being almost completely abandoned. Outside things continue as normal, and just once Jon had walked up to one of the Institute assistants (_Geoff? Jeffrey?_) just to see if he was still visible. The man had looked at him like he was insane, but at the very least Jon was still perceptible.

The inner wing of the Institute is quiet, but the lower levels are almost catacomb-like in their total destitution. No windows, mostly well lit and a limestone floor adorned with the ghost-like leftovers of ancient fossils. There are no signs or labels, compared to Elias’ old office which was ground-floor and had his name illustrated on a pompous glass plate.

If Peter Lukas even has an office in the building, it must be hidden away in the maze-like lower floors of the Institute, hailed in isolation and cold air.

***

> 8:31 AM || Wednesday, February 21st 2018
> 
> from: _jonathan.sims@magnusinstitute.com_
> 
> to: _martin.blackwood@magnusinstitute.com, mkblackw00d@gmail.com_
> 
> Martin, I am not angry with you but I hope you know what a precariously stupid decision you’re making, siding with Peter Lukas. If you’re reading this, that is not an insult to your intelligence, seeing as it would take a magnanimous lack of intellect to not realize the Lukas family is incredibly dangerous.
> 
> I write this in hope that you (A), read this and come to your better senses, and (B), it’s not too late and it’s already taken you.
> 
> Stay safe
> 
> Jon

Utterly aware that he won’t get a response seconds later, Jon still furiously hits refresh and jiggles his leg beneath the table. By far the worst part is the lack of control he has over the situation, being rendered utterly useless as an Archivist. All Elias’ gloating about what powers he now possesses – fat lot of good they’re doing him now, he can’t even See what’s going on and what else is he good for then?

He tries to submerge himself in actual work. He picks a statement from one of the piles and gets three minutes into recording it before realizing that _the tape isn’t working_, and in a brief moment of frustrated unprofessionalism only barely manages to keep himself from flinging the recorder at the wall.

It’s driving him out of his mind and then some, all the work suddenly just seems useless useless _useless_ and his mind begins to spiral downwards in a comically nihilist manner.

He wonders if Elias is watching him from jail, and briefly considers flipping the bird to whatever direction he imagines the man to be watching from.

Jon sits down at the creaking chair again and opens up a new mail, again directed to both Martin’s available addresses, types and erases a few words before coming to the bitter realization that if Martin has been taken by the Lonely, the way to get him back isn’t through somewhat poorly worded emails.

He thinks about the statements regarding the Lonely – Andrea Nunis who survived an encounter with it in Italy, Carlita Sloane who worked first hand with Peter Lukas and Naomi Herne who even survived a marriage and meeting the entire Lukas family.

It is a stupid idea, to build up hope over the notion that lethality regarding encounters with the Lonely wasn’t as high as the other fears. But two of the statement authors only survived due to outside influence, and the other only happened to bear witness to death claiming someone else.

_I’ll have to do this myself_, Jon thinks with such clarity he almost says it aloud. A whirring appears at the back of his head, not the Eye but his own mind racing as he thinks; to find Martin on his own, to at the very least speak to him if it’s not already too late. It doesn’t seem like a smart choice, alone descending into the bowels of the Institute which have been taken over by the Forsaken, but Jon hasn’t exactly been in the business of making wise decisions lately.

He refuses to lose anyone else. If there is anything he can do to actually stop his horrible employment from claiming another soul, he can’t sit idly by. 

At 9:00 AM on the dot, Jon puts aside all concerns and second thoughts and simply goes for it, pockets his phone and his keys and after a second of consideration decides to take the tape recorder in hand. He has the faintest thought that Basira maybe would offer to help, or at the very least scold him later for not telling her. If Melanie is anywhere near the same mood he’s seen her in lately she wouldn’t be much help either, and there is no one else left.

Jon lets out a hollow exhale as he descends the stairs, not quite laughing at what his life has become but unable to stay quiet. As he keeps one hand on the oak railing he wonders if there are elevators in the Institute, thinking that after having worked here for almost a decade he ought know the basic layout. The maze-like architecture of the inner Institute could certainly be attributed to Smirke, and Jon briefly wishes he would have listened to Tim’s lectures about the man’s work – though he doubts it would’ve helped.

It’s not until he’s descended two sets of limestone stairs that Jon quietly realizes and remembers how _large_ the building is; it is four floors tall, with the Archive and artifact storage being located all the way inside on the ground floor, far away from the main entrance. He doesn’t know how _deep_ the Institute reaches, how the buried hallways branch forwards without colliding with the old prison tunnels. Perhaps it was intentional, putting elements of other fears in a temple to the Beholding.

The hallways are clean, unlikely because ofmaintenance but rather rarely being occupied. The first door Jon encounters and manages to open is a miserable looking supply closet that has been taken over with old papers and rubbish. He briefly digs in to see if there are any documents of value, but the eye at the back of his head buzzes to inform him _it is not so_.

When faced with two equally depressing looking doors, Jon feels rather Knows the right turn to take: he takes one step past the door frame and is instantly instilled with a cold feeling of dread and a certainty that he is going to die here.

Jon lets out a triumphant huff.

***

Though he never in his life ever would admit it, Jon finds himself to be a little grateful for Elias’ thorough indoctrination. There has been more than a few situations where he certainly would’ve died if not for the powers bestowed upon him, and navigating the corridors haunted by the Lonely is no exception. Most of the time his powers (he _hates_ calling them that) were cause for nothing but ruminating on what he was becoming and if he would have preferred to die a human, but he has no time to brood now.

Something shifts in the air and sends a horrible chill down his spine, and Jon looks around himself with a shudder.

“Hello?” he asks against his better judgement, peering into the first door he finds to see if there’s anything there – be it human or featureless screaming figure. It’s empty, of course, but different. There is a buzzing just behind Jon’s eyes as the _need_ for information begins to make itself known, and Jon takes his phone out.

He has a low but persistent signal, and his heart is almost drumming its way out of his chest with excitement as he sends a single »_Hello_« to the scarcely used contact of Martin Blackwood.

It sends.

In the distance, far away and echoing slightly, there is the chirp of a phone receiving a text.

“Martin!” Jon calls out, whips around to the direction of the sound and facing a completely empty corridor as the hair on the back of his head begins to prickle with the familiar feeling of _seenseeingwatchedhereshowme _and a high pitched whistling of being so close to knowledge.

He’s there, Jon knows that Martin is there but he can’t _see_ him. His heart is beating so hard that it feels like his very pulse is rattling his bones and nerves as he runs down the corridor. When he texts Martin’s number again, this time just a slew of letters typed out as fast as he can, there is no sound in return this time.

The tendrils of the Lonely try to seep closer as if trying to strangle the hope building in Jon’s chest.

Jon pushes open a door and almost lets out a shout of victory when he sees a proper office inside, papers strewn about and not looking as abandoned as the rest of the tunnels.

There is a sudden noise from directly behind him, and Jon scrambles to turn around expecting to see Martin, Peter, any new horror or another Lukas’, but the hallway has simply vanished and been replaced by a thick wall of fog. Jon’s eyes linger just long enough to realize there is no one there, and when he turns back to check out the office–

It’s gone.

The hallways are hailed with waist-high fog, hiding away the desk and the furniture and making Jon doubt if it even was there in the first place. Jon rushes through the fog and it is tangible to the touch, getting his hands cold and wet and pushing against his clothes like it is a solid presence.

“God damn it, _no_–“ he hisses and waves his arms where the desk was, looking around and seeing nothing but hallways filled with tall thick white fog. It’s rolling gently, as if waves on the sea, rising and sinking as if it is breathing. The hope in his chest implodes and the Lonely finally sinks its teeth into him, filling him with dread and the chilling feeling of being unwanted.

Jon heads down the first path he sees, the hallways suddenly becoming mazes as the fog climbs and what common sense he still has left hissing at him to run, _unwanted not here go leave_. Jon had expected it to feel desolate, hopeless and utterly alone, always has been and always will be – but it is aggressive, a smothering sensation of _you don’t belong here_ when he was so close to finally getting answers.

Every corridor is indistinguishable, the mist is rising higher and higher until it feels like Jon is drowning in the cold air, too heavy in his lungs to expel and weighing him down.

The fog spits him out with such intensity that Jon almost falls over in shock when the white fog suddenly is replaced with the familiar light grey walls of the lower floor of the Institute. He almost stumbles onto the limestone steps of the stairs, and at once the Lonely lets go of him so abruptly that Jon almost wonders if the cold feeling of being unwanted was even there in the first place.

Jon cautiously looks where he came from and ever so briefly catches glimpse of the mist disappearing back into the halls, drawing itself away like a living creature moving out of sight with a message so clear that Jon wonders if it was intended by Peter Lukas himself; _do not come back_.

Jon lets out a little amused scoff just for himself to hear; it is practically a printed and hand delivered invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originally started out as Jon/Peter porn-without-plot but it got wildly, _wildly_ out of hand. But don't take a breath of relief yet, that's what chapter 2 is all about –– hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon agrees to take a statement under particular conditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herein lies consensual peter/jon hatesex, the entire point of this fic before it somehow became 32k words long

Something Jon had appreciated at the start of his Archivist profession was the Institute’s not particularly strict hours. It had not been strictly 9 to 5, as long as he showed up to work at all it was _fine_. It doesn’t apply now of course – there’s no Elias or Martin to check up on him when he doesn’t show up to work, and the only reason Jon can’t stay away from the building for more than a week is a matter of personal health.

In the winter he preferred to show up as early as possible and be able to leave while it still was bright out, meaning that his plan to practically _sneak into_ the building very early the morning wasn’t that much different from his usual schedule.

He doesn’t have to wake up early either – Jon spends most of the night unable to sleep, too busy planning and overthinking what will happen. Eventually he came to the conclusion that he can’t think straight with his head this full, and began to take notes. By the time the sun is rising he’s gone through four cups of tea.

At 5:12 AM he leaves his flat, satchel on his shoulder and despite having slept a total of three hours Jon’s fingers tremble with an excess of energy.

It’s just a normal day. It’s nothing special – early Thursday morning in central London, and neither the streets or the tube are empty in the slightest. Busy streets and occupied train carts. The reddish light of the sun looming over the blocky crest of the London skyline, frost adorning the grass carpets of the parks. Various cafés slowly beginning to open up.

Compared to the feats Jon has survived, to sneak into the building when no one else is there is almost harmless by Archivist standards. _There’s no need for jittery nerves_, Jon internally tells his feverishly beating heart, _it’s not the end of the world_.

The lamps in the Institute aren’t on timers, which means that it is pitch dark when Jon sneaks in through the back door used for deliveries. It makes Jon feel like he’s breaking into a chapel rather than an academic building, and the torch he brought does little to dissuade the feeling of being a damn _cat burglar_.

He had given up on the possibility of receiving any sort of digital responses but still checked both email and texts to see if there was the slightest chance Martin had replied.

Not that it really mattered – if a woman so consumed by worms that she resembled a moth-eaten rag could text from Martin’s phone and lie about his safety, there was no reason Peter Lukas couldn’t do the same thing.

This time when Jon descends down the stairs and into the tunnels, he finds them to be nowhere near as maze-like as before. Their appearance is still grey and unfriendly, but the weight of the Lonely is weaker. It is still very much present, lingering as if challenging the Beholding, but it is a weak echo of what it was yesterday. This time there is no fog or Lukas to protect its sanctuary and usher him out, and Jon finds his steps to become more eager and confident as he continues down the hallways.

Without any windows to show the outdoors it is impossible to tell what time it is, and Jon shudders at the thought of working in the lower floors for days at a time without even realizing it. More than a few statements have shown strange lapses in time, and from a purely scientific standpoint isolation is an easy way to loose track of time.

Does Martin even know how long it’s been? It’s hard to imagine he doesn’t: every paper and every document in the Institute is timestamped, and whatever bizarre work he and Peter do shouldn’t be an exception. Doubt briefly strikes and Jon gets his phone out to check what the time is – the screen glows _05:47_, meaning that time is passing as usual and Jon is running out of it.

He finds the office far easier this time with no avatar to guard it. The door is still open, and when Jon steps in it looks just as it did yesterday, except there’s no fog this time. He doesn’t look away for a second, as if just a moment of not paying attention means he will lose it _again_ and all of this will have been for nothing. He enters slowly, checking the floor if it’s solid and then sideways approaching the bookshelves along the walls, the entire time not letting the centerpiece desk out of his sight.

Experimentally he briefly looks away from it, focusing on the spines of the books instead, and then looks back to see if the desk has vanished. It still remains, large and made out of dark wood, and Jon firmly chews on his bottom lip. The Eye is of no use, no useful humming guiding his hands or sight.

He pockets his glasses and gives the bookshelf his attention. It is half empty, occupied with old frayed books and an amount of rubbish and papers which have been shoved in with little to no regard for organization. Not all of them are written in English or even using the Latin alphabet, most of them walking some line of dramatized non-fiction and old accounts of long-forgotten sciences and arts. They are motley and do not fit together particularly well, books valued for their individual purpose rather than a collection. Jon randomly remembers Salesa and his alleged brief involvement with Peter, and wonders how many of the books were gotten through the man.

Pretty and interesting, of course, even if none of them turned out to be Leitners more than a few looked like they could have a related statement. But they are not what Jon came for, and they’ll have to wait until their turn in the artifact storage.

The wooden desk shows more sign of life. It is still cluttered with papers and pens, a single ceramic mug off to the side dirty with old earthy-colored stains of coffee. As Jon steps towards it there is a low static suddenly buzzing behind his eyes, and Jon frowns in silent thought of _what do you want me to see?_

The Eye gives him no further warning.

The static rises in pitch before Jon has time to react. A firm grip lands on his shoulder and arm, wrenches him so that he’s pressed face first into the wall and the air leaves his lungs in a choked shout.

“You just don’t know when to let up, do you?” a voice murmurs coldly.

Even without the Archive’s knowledge humming within his head, rising and thrilling until culminating in a noise much like tinnitus, it’s not particularly hard to presume the man restraining him to be Peter Lukas.

“It comes with the profession,” Jon snaps and twists his neck to try and better see. He’s being held firmly but not particularly painfully, both arms squeezed between his chest and the concrete wall. He can arch his head enough to catch a glimpse of the interim director, damned tall with pale eyes beneath a displeased frown and a hint of silver hair.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Archivist, but it’s really not. You almost made a right mess of things yesterday – guess I should’ve listened to Elias in that regard.”

Jon doesn’t bother thrashing against his grip. Escape becomes a sort of afterthought because right now his only concern is Martin, and Peter’s attempts at being intimidating isn’t something he has the time for.

“Where’s Martin?” Jon asks and relishes the way Peter’s hands give a little tremble.

_“What have you done to him?_” he finishes and allows for as much compulsion possible to seep into the words, feels how it thrums in the air and rivals the Forsaken’s hold and makes Peter shudder involuntarily.

With his face angled against the wall, he catches glimpse of Lukas’ making a face of pure discomfort.

“Ah. Can’t say I missed _that _feeling,” he mumbles, still pinning Jon so that he can’t move. “What have _I _done to Martin? Nothing he didn’t himself walk headfirst into. You ought give him some credit, Sims, he didn’t walk blindly into my arms, he volunteered himself.”

Peter lets go of him and Jon snaps around so that they are face to face. Lukas is still stood close, head tilted slightly and shoulders broad in what certainly is meant to be an intimidating stance – at this point in Jon’s life it is frankly laughable to think Peter could scare him off simply with physical stature.

Jon glares up at him, defiant and suddenly feeling personally _insulted _at Peter’s presence in the Institute, interim director or not. He searches his face for something, a sign that Peter somehow can withstand his ‘_powers_’ and is lying, but of course he’s not. The irritated expression on his face splits into a pleased thoughtful grin, and Jon at once decides he prefers this man unhappy.

“Maybe I was too hasty,” Peter thinks aloud, “Martin makes for a wonderful assistant, good little conduit between the Eye and the Forsaken, but you? I thought Elias took better care of his people.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks too quickly for any compulsion to drip in. Peter’s smile widens.

“It practically reeks on you, you’re just as miserable as he is. Self-quarantining yourself so you can’t get anyone hurt – I should’ve waited til you were awake rather than offer it to Blackwood, my mistake for doubting Elias’ would let his pet project get touched by any other entity.”

_You’d be surprised_, Jon thinks gingerly and his scarred hand twitches.

Lukas isn’t lying, the compulsion wouldn’t allow for it. Martin did this out of own volition, went willingly into the Lonely’s maw when Jon was unconscious (_dead_) and unable to stop him. The rational part of him says that there is nothing he could’ve done, and Jon manages to shut it up by saying _then I’ll do what I can now_.

“Where is he?” he asks Peter again. There is a soft smile playing at his face.

“Right where he belongs,” he says cheerily and Jon bristles.

“Tell me or I’ll _make_ you,” he snaps, lets the Beholding brush the edges of each word but sinks no actual power into it, the promise of _more_ unless Peter Lukas behaves.

“Know your place, Archivist,” Peter replies. His face is still jovial, sharp contrast to the freezing cunning behind his grey eyes. “I’m not a violent man, but I don’t take kindly to being _threatened_.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then make yourself at home. Why would I talk to someone clearly so much more powerful than me?” Peter clutches his chest in mock weakness. “Pulling my secrets from out my mouth as you please – if you want my _statement_ I’d rather have it be under your duress.”

“What are you–“ Jon begins, but then the Eye all but sings like a boiling kettle and interrupts him. The Beholding sends a series of abstract imagery of memories and feelings that aren’t his own, drifting past behind his eyes. It leaves his chest suddenly coiling with the morbid heat of humiliation, shock and – against his better judgement – interest, seeing what _duress_ meant to Elias and Peter–

(_it was a game to them, Elias in his lap and every moment not spent gasping or stifling moans used to make Peter talk, pull words like teeth and then be bounced until he couldn’t speak, Peter cuffed in bed as Elias made him whine and speak_)

Something in Jon’s expression must betray him, because a smile of genuine concern blooms over Peter’s face. He realizes that he hasn’t spoken in four seconds.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Archivist,” Peter says. Jon is too flustered to even enjoy the real confusion that now furrows his brow and rises the corner of his mouth.

“You cannot be serious,” Jon hisses as his face begins to burn, “that’s _filth._”

And then it must click into place, because Peter’s eyes glitter and his brows shoot up.

“Really?” he asks aloud, and a bright lilt spreads to his eyes and white teeth, “Do believe me when I say that I didn’t expect the Eye to show you _that_.”

Jon can’t bring himself to speak, which is fine because Peter is happy to go on; “Now, wasn’t my first idea but if you’re so eager – it’s not particularly fair you get to have me at your mercy, don’t you agree? Even the fields, as it were.”

The Eye won’t show him what Peter’s apparent first idea was, but Jon imagines it to be thematically less pleasant.

Somewhere, maybe not even in this room, a tape recorder begins to listen.

“Even the fields,” he echoes with sour sarcasm.

Peter shrugs one shoulder in a somewhat transparent attempt to seem unbothered, “Do you have a better suggestion?”

Jon’s head is still spinning with thoughts and memories that do not belong to him, things which the Beholding has elected are for him to See. Perhaps it is setting up its very own show, engineering its own entertainment by making him faced with this _choice_–

The worst part is he is actually considering it. Something in his gut is thrilling with some kind of excitement at what will happen and what he will be shown, the terrible need to know _moremoremore_; not to mention the flustered frantic feeling taking its place even lower which Jon chooses to blame on adrenaline rather anything else, refusing to admit to himself that he might be genuinely interested in this.

Sometime in the future, Jon is going to keep a therapist _very_ entertained.

“Fine,” he exhales in disbelief. “Fine, I’ll–“

Abruptly cutting himself off, he realizes that Peter is gone. The room is suddenly empty save for him, with no fog lingering where Peter once stood. Jon tentatively stretches out his hand in some bizarre impulse that the man might’ve turned invisible, but feels nothing.

The room is empty, save for its furnishing.

The desk is still there. It is as alluring as a treasure chest. 

Jon barely dares to exhale, hands twitching in thought before he paces towards it. He ignores the dark blue chair and instead leans above the desk to look over the various papers: print-outs of various reports, mails, documents and bookkeeping. Jon pushes one of them gently aside and lets out a little gasp seeing Martin’s circular handwriting in blue mechanical pencil adorning various documents.

It is written in an unfamiliarly passive tone, _You have to sign off on this one_ on a request for one of the older statements, _This was due YESTERDAY _on something else, _What am I supposed to do about this?_ on another, and so on. It’s not the panicked desperate cries for help that Jon had been wringing his hands over, just somewhat annoyed notes on paperwork. Both the relief and heartache blooms in his chest simultaneously: Martin went willingly.

Of course he did.

The idiot.

Jon moves on, pushes the papers aside when none of them prove to be particularly valuable. The desk has an attached oak cabinet as well as two separate drawers, and he tentatively grabs a handle and discovers it to sluggish but unlocked.

This time it is not the Beholding, but simply human awareness that warns him as Peter’s solid frame suddenly appears behind him, putting a heavy hand on the back of Jon’s neck and firmly pushes down. It is not enough to hurt, just enough to tip Jon’s balance and shove him face-first against the desk with a stifled shout.

A sort of clenching shameful rage begins to build, and Jon isn’t sure if he wants to laugh at his own stupidity or bitterly curse himself for it, laying flat on the table and bitterly thinking _shit_.

“Insatiable, are we?” Peter says in a low tone by his ear, rich with amusement. Jon grumbles low in his throat in an abashed lack of argument.

“Didn’t think you’d actually go for it, but don’t worry. I know you eyes – can’t quite help yourself. Like putting a carrot on a stick,” Peter continues. He keeps one hand just below Jon’s neck and lets the other too slowly move down between his shoulder-blades.

Jon lets out a scoff.

“Quite the innocent way to describe Elias’ motivations,” he mutters and Peter chuckles in response. His heart is rattling like a door on a chain, furiously drumming against his ribcage and the desk beneath. It has been a long time since his pulse was high for a reason other than fear, and his hands twitch confused as if not knowing how to deal with a kinder touch.

It has been a long time since that kind of touch, too. His skin burns beneath his sweater as Peter trails further down: it is almost too soft, too vulnerable considering the intents of this whole encounter. Peter’s hand pauses on his lower back and stays there, questioning, a heavy weight simply promising what is to come.

When he doesn’t move for a while, Jon realizes that he’s waiting for some cue and tilts his head back to see Peter looking at him with the corner of his mouth raised.

“Get on with it, will you?” he snaps and sees Peter’s eyes glitter with barely contained mirth. He is so close now that Jon can feel the warmth of his chest against his back.

“Nothing if not stubborn. Elias did say that about you,” Peter responds conversationally and crowds in closer so that Jon’s arse almost is pressed against his hips. Peter’s hand drops down behind Jon’s legs and Jon almost jumps in shock at the sudden touch, not having realized how sensitive he had grown already.

“Talked about you in great detail, about your _abilities_ and your progress. Frankly I wouldn’t be that surprised if it turned out he fancied you,” Jon’s stomach does something strange and he doesn’t know if it is at the praise or Peter groping his thigh, “but he’s not exactly the ‘crushing’ type. What do you think?”

“I try not to think about him if I can help it,” Jon responds lowly. “Am I allowed to ask questions yet?”

The hand that is not on the back of Jon’s neck squeezes the back of his thigh. It… doesn’t feel bad.

“Of course.”

“Wondrous. Why does-“ Peter squeezes his groin through his trousers, gently but firmly. He keeps at it for a little while, before he drags Jon’s trousers and underwear, down exposing him to the cold air of the office. Jon embarrassingly enough has to inhale and compose himself to try and slow his furiously beating heart down.

If Peter is surprised at Jon’s _parts_, he does not voice it.

“_Why did he make you the interim director?_” Jon asks and lets the strength of the Eye sing with every word. He feels rather sees as the compulsion takes its hold, and Peter giving a little twitch.

“I don’t quite know,” he admits and Jon inhales sharply as Lukas circles two fingers around his hole, “I could say it was some sort of testament to him trusting me, but he really doesn’t. It’s mutual. I think I was the first person who doesn’t actively want to kill him that he could get a hold of.”

It _has_ been a god damn while, Jon realizes, because when Peter slips one finger in his eyes flutter terribly. He feels somewhat betrayed by his own body, so _wanton_ already when he spends three weeks out of the month with little to no libido, and one week where his body is nothing but a bother. Peter beat the 75/25 odds, apparently.

Not that Jon is keeping count, but this might be one of the stupidest things he has done for the Institute thus far, and it is made more humiliating by the fact he is choosing to do this. The door is unlocked, he could just leave and figure out something else.

Because he could leave.

He _should_ leave.

But he won’t.

Peter pries another finger into him and Jon reflexively bucks his hips, growls into the wood of the desk and feels himself become tense as Peter works him in earnest now. It’s firm and fast and good, makes Jon’s teeth grit and his eyes become unfocused.

There is a little voice of reason, one that wants him to ask questions now that he has the chance. Jon tries to listen to it, but Peter’s fingers are long and rough and scissoring him wide. He lets out a shaky cry when a third nudges in.

It takes intentional effort to stay still and not gently move himself along, to not instinctually respond or bask in that stupid need for human (lacking a better word) contact being filled. It had been the same way with Georgie the few times they had succeeded, enjoying the closeness and briefly having only one thing that held his focus. A good pressure when she entered him, the terrifying feeling of losing himself during the orgasms she was particularly skilled at wringing out of him.

The key difference here being that he liked Georgie, he liked touching her. But this– this should–

Peter lets up his hand on the back of Jon’s neck and Jon scrambles somewhat to be rested on his arms rather flatly on the table. His fingers press up into where Jon is soft and sensitive, and Jon bows his head down between his arms and tries not to whine or buck back.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Peter praises and Jon rolls his eyes. “Did Elias ever take the same opportunity?”

Jon is struck by the terrible thought of Elias watching from his cell, and lets out a little gasp and tightens down on Peter’s fingers enough to gain him a noise of approval. Jon doesn’t trust himself to speak (which is _fucking ridiculous_ because it is his job to be the one talking, the one prying out answers) and doesn’t bother trying to bite down the small moan that escapes him when Peter fervently presses down inside him.

Finally, _finally_, there is the sound of a belt being unbuckled and Jon reflexively spreads his legs. Peter’s cock presses just against the rim of his hole in a promise.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you the nice fuck you’ve been so starved for,” he murmurs, and Jon feels bitterly betrayed by his own psyche when humiliation and arousal simultaneously roll hot through him.

It is Peter who lets out a little _hah_ as he pushes himself inside, Jon is silent only because he forgets exactly how to breathe or put his attention to anything but the languid-too-fast-not-fast-enough-yes-_more_ feeling of being filled. His legs tremble and his gut tightens, and then something inside him gives way and Peter pushes himself in to the hilt with a soft groan and so far inside that it almost _itches, _so deep and so–

“Breathe, Archivist,” Peter tells him and Jon lets out a sobbing gasp, eyes screwed shut and tense as piano-wire as Peter strokes his side and drops his hand between his legs, touches Jon’s own cock with a light but insistent hand that almost tickles in how intense the sensation is.

Jon vaguely remembers the purpose of this being so that he could question Peter, but it is too distant now, all he can think of is the fact he needs Peter to fucking _move_ because he’s so heavy inside, pressing deep and, Jon begrudgingly will lastly admit it, _good_.

Maybe they passed that threshold a while back.

There is tears in Jon’s eyes, a testament to the frankly embarrassing way his body sometimes reacts during sex, and he doesn’t bother biting back the whine that hums in the back of his throat when Peter finally starts to thrust. He moves his hips in small shallow circles that leave little room to retract, rutting into him while rubbing his clit in a manner that’s far more reciprocating than Jon had expected when this first was suggested.

A part of him wishes it was rougher and less pleasurable, more of a business transaction than Peter clearly taking so much enjoyment in seeing him unwind and tremble tight around him. He builds up a pace that is just fast enough to be punishing, and Jon fervently ignores the impulse to close his eyes and just enjoy the feeling of his insides being stretched.

This is business, not pleasure. No matter how prominent the latter now is.

“Not that I’m complaining,” interrupts Peter (_good God does he ever shut up?_), “but a deal is a deal and I did agree to, ah, let you ask your questions.”

“How chivalrous,” Jon replies dryly and feels Peter’s gut shiver as he huffs a laugh. It is building inside him now, the rocking cresting sensation of a shamefully early orgasm because Peter is quite insistent. It takes Jon a second to gather his thoughts and find the Beholding’s grip, wets his lips and asks:

“_Why _does the Lukas family don-“

“Oh no, Archivist, I won’t have you making me think of my family during this,” Peter interrupts and leans over him, grabs the edge of the desk with both hands to leverage himself so deep inside that Jon lets out an unhindered cry and arches his back. Peter stays like that, buried to the hip so that Jon can’t move in either direction or do anything but just whine and try to take him.

Jon might be talking, he isn’t sure, babbling breathily _fuck please oh god please _because he is painfully close now and his entire lower half is throbbing with heat. Peter mercifully begins to move again. It is faster and less restrained now, and Jon can take a small amount of triumph from the fact that Peter is becoming undone as well.

“_Where’s_ Martin?” Jon spits out laboriously, realizing Peter never answered that question in particular.

“Right now? I don’t know,” he says and there is a frayed tone of exert in his otherwise so conversational voice. “First thing he learnt, not to bother me or anyone else for that matter lest it’s necessary.”

Peter’s hips suddenly stutter, grinding in deep as he thoughtfully adds,

“He could be anywhere. There’s no guarantee he’s not watching you right now, Archivist.”

And that’s all it takes – the suggestion of Martin seeing him like this, awful humiliation and excitement all in one rises inside him and crests until he’s coming sobbing, crying without inhibition as Peter fucks him through it.

The idea of asking any further questions goes out the window and Jon just holds onto the desk as Peter rides him to completion with no regard for Jon’s overstimulation. In and out, the slap of skin on skin and Jon’s cunt being filled.

Peter seats himself as deep as can go when he comes with a shout – the first noise above conversational level Jon’s heard him make_ –_ and spills deep inside his pussy with three shallow thrusts.

Jon’s head is spinning, unable to think of anything but the warmth still soaring inside his belly and Peter’s heavy breath above him. Pleasure slowly recedes (incredibly slowly, there’s still aftershocks rolling through him) and common sense begins to make itself known as the reality of the situation dawns upon him.

Peter pulls himself out and Jon winces slightly, makes a strange noise in the back of his throat when he feels one of Peter’s hands reach down and spread him slightly so he can admire his own work pouring out.

“Right then,” Lukas says merrily and there is shuffling noise of him dragging his trousers back up. Jon shudders and tries to find the willpower to move but finds that his limbs feel like are made out of lead. The slightest motion of his legs makes him almost ricochet at the sensation of cum _still inside him_ and trickling down his thighs and makes him shudder pitifully. Reflexively Jon reaches down to weakly palm himself in some notion of covering or maybe wiping away the mess left between his legs. Pride keeps him from asking for a napkin or paper towel, instead just tugs his own trousers back up with a shivering exhale and his head held low.

Jon can’t quite bring himself to speak. He thinks he hears the tape recorder click off, seemingly satisfied with what it has heard, and he wonders if it somehow will appear within Elias’ cell for his perusal. Peter puts a jovial hand on Jon’s back in a friendly pat as Jon meagerly leaves his office with his thoughts rendered a dissonant mess.

“I hope that was what you were looking for,” Peter tells him brightly.

And then he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **me:** this is just gonna be some weird but consensual peter/jon filth porn with no plot  
**me, finally getting someone's dick out after 6k~ words:** perhaps not


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin listens to a tape.

There is a strange sort of loathing he harbors for Peter Lukas which he didn’t feel for Elias Bouchard. It is bizarre of course: all Peter Lukas has done is be incompetent and make the Institute feel emptier than ever, advise him to not interact with Jon but not outright banning it. Peter Lukas never made him or Melanie into a sobbing mess sat against the wall, plagued by memories that didn’t belong to them. Peter Lukas didn’t dangle him or his friends like pieces of raw meat in front of an array of monsters or neglect to tell him of the horrible things that were beneath the Institute or masquerading as his friend.

Technically he should at the very least hate them equally. Martin doesn’t.

Even if one is to ignore Peter’s _interesting _business decisions and changes regarding the Institute, he was a shit director. The man was useless when it came to any sort of technology and needed everything to be printed out, proving himself immediately to be near-sighted and either unable or refusing to read most things on the screen.

“Oh I can’t read that,” Peter had said while squinting so intensely his entire face was grimacing. “Can you read it aloud for me?”

Martin had immediately taken to printing out various documents after that, because at least Peter knew what _paper_ was. Getting him to sign off or acknowledge said papers was still a chore, most days it was a gamble if Martin would even see him at all. He took to leaving them all on Peter’s desk with the bitter thought of ‘_he’ll get to them eventually_’ and then went right back to work.

That was all he did nowadays.

He worked, he worked and he worked, and he did so completely alone.

***

Sometimes during slow days, Martin couldn’t repress the urge to head upstairs and see what had become of the Institute. He made sure to hide himself, drawing a cloak of fog and I-am-not-here so no one would see him as he headed into the cafeteria: Extinction or not, he still needed to eat and drink. He wondered what it looked like to outsiders, if Martin was invisible in the traditional sense and they saw the kettle and the mugs moving on their own. Or if they see it and they see him but they are simply compelled to ignore him.

The first time Martin saw Jon in the cafeteria he had almost dropped his cup.

He had just stared as Jon walked past him and towards the fridge, taken out the jug with lemon-infused water and poured himself a glass in complete silence. It had been so vulnerable, so weirdly _intimate_, seeing Jon move in his soft birdlike way as he thought no one was watching. It served as a grim confirmation that Martin was both Forsaken and Beholding.

He could’ve let the guise drop, let Jon see him and _talk_ to him, but he didn’t. He just watched in complete silence like a statue as Jon did his business and then left.

The contact didn’t make Martin feel less alone in the slightest, like he had expected. It made him feel the opposite – that he was unwanted, that the world kept moving even when he wasn’t there.

***

Wednesday morning had left Martin’s heart in his throat. He and Peter had been going over expenditures when Peter had suddenly frozen and sat back with the intensity of a bloodhound catching scent, and said,

“Your Archivist is coming.”

Martin doesn’t feel the chill in his bones anymore when the fog begins to seep through the room, each time appearing out of nowhere. Martin knows how to walk and see through it now, so he just presses himself against the wall and with ease avoids Jon.

It is miserably comical, seeing Jon walk through the mist confused and sometimes walking in circles because the Lonely is interlaced with the Spiral and the Vast, repeating and confounding.

Neither Peter nor Martin had seen the text coming. Martin felt his phone vibrate in his pant pocket and then heard Jon run towards his general direction, and if it hadn’t been for Peter Jon would’ve managed to find him. Peter had stepped in then, ushering Jon out while Martin’s heart beat too hard for him to move or act, unable to tell with himself if he was upset or relieved that Peter had stopped Jon from finding him.

Martin hadn’t showed up the day after. It was just a regular Thursday but it didn’t matter, at this point Martin doubts that he even needs to clock in or report his absence. 

Just as well, too, because Martin couldn’t bring himself to leave the bed until 14:01 PM. He read and reread Jon’s text over and over and over again until the blue glow of his phone began to hurt his eyes, and then he finally manages to wrench himself out of bed and make breakfast/lunch.

He had been there.

Jon had been _there_, so close that Martin could’ve reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders if he wanted to, shake him and tell him to just _mind his god damned business_. He can’t bring himself to delete Jon’s mails even though he knows he should, it would make it easier to suppress the urge to reply to them.

But he won’t, of course. Martin eats his egg toast and lets out a hollow laugh at yesterday’s mail, before Jon had shown up in the lower halls himself, half-accusing Martin of having a _magnanimous lack of intellect_.

At least Jon hadn’t changed in the slightest.

***

He does head into work by Friday, and finds Peter to be in an almost closed off mood. Even his fake mirth is gone and when Martin shoots him a ‘good morning’ Peter just waves his hand in disregard.

_Fine,_ Martin thinks sourly. _Have it that way_.

There are no statements to be recorded or read today, just him and Peter in the small office as Martin sorts through papers and Peter looks through the various things he is handed. Mindless non-verbal work, too easy for it to really distract Martin. A part of him wonders if it would break some unspoken rule if he reached for his bag and put on his headphones, but decides against it.

After about thirty minutes of the menial task, Martin gets up to fetch an old carton box used to store blank printing paper. On top of it is a tape recorder of familiar make, dark grey and a little vintage, and Martin’s brows shoot up.

“What’s this?” he asks and holds up the recorder.

Peter leans in from his seat and squints so hard his eyes almost close. Martin wonders if he can see it at all, and frankly wonders if Peter at all knows what a tape recorder is considering his track record with most technology.

“Ceaseless Watcher I suppose,” Peter then offers and shrugs. “You told me they appear as they please.”

“They do, but usually to listen to something,” Martin explains patiently as Peter stands up. “This one’s turned off–”

“Really not my nor your business, Martin,” Peter suddenly interrupts him and makes motion to leave, shrugging his coat back over his broad shoulders and brows high in nonchalance.

“You put it on the pile or something, or whatever it is you do with them. I need to get moving now,” he says and gives a familiar ugly grin as he waves Martin goodbye and walks out the door.

“Right,” Martin murmurs mutely and tries to put as much hatred into his gaze as he watches the dark blue jacket disappear past the doorframe.

Yeah.

He definitely preferred Elias.

Martin makes to leave Peter’s office after that, returns to his own little corner to continue his work and brings the tape along because why not. He reaches into his bag and takes out his laptop and headphones and continues the digital work left for him, for once rather enjoying the solitude.

He doesn’t get very far into it before he begins to eye the cassette again, drumming his fingers against the desk and pressing his tongue against his teeth in thought.

Rarely does anything happen in the Institute as an innocent accident. There’s almost always some intent behind something, but there’s not a trace of cobweb upon the tape indicating it was left by the Web. It’s not even just a tape, it’s an entire recorder of the same brand-less make that simply appear here and there in the Institute. It’s almost like someone forgot it there.

Martin gives his work a few more honest tries before he groans, removes his headphones, and presses the _play_ button on the recorder.

Just this, then he’ll return to work.

There is a second of low-quality white noise, and then a familiar dry tone saying:

_»Even the fields.«_

Martin startles at the sound of Jon’s voice, the unamused sound is so familiar that for a second it feels like two years haven’t passed and he’s still a lowly archival assistant listening to the statements. It makes his chest grow tight with nostalgia.

_»Do you have a better solution?«_continues the tape, this time it’s Peter’s voice and it tears Martin out of his violently out of his thoughts.

A shiver goes up his spine; Peter had neglected to tell him that the two had ever met. In fact he had claimed to never have met Jon at all, and Martin clenches his fists as if he needs to physically defend Jon from too succumbing to the Lonely.

There is a pause on the tape, followed by a deep sigh that is so characteristically _Jon_ that Martin almost could laugh. There is the blooming sound of intense static, and then Jon speaks up.

_»Fine. Fine, I’ll–«_

Silence again. He hears Jon walk through the office and the sounds of his steps imply him walking towards where the recorder must have appeared. There is nothing but the sound of papers rustling and in his head Martin is able to place Jon being at the desk, meaning the recorder must’ve originally been on the shelf behind it. It is strangely comforting, the sound Jon’s breathing and nothing else. There is the rusty noise of one of Peter’s old desk drawers being pulled out, confirming Martin’s visualization.

Familiar harsh static reappears, and then there is a firm thud and a little exclamation from Jon that almost makes Martin leap out of his seat.

_»Insatiable, are we?«_ Peter asks with a purring tone that makes Martin’s skin crawl. He hears Jon give an annoyed grunt in return.

_»Didn’t think you’d actually go for it, but don’t worry. I know you eyes – can’t quite help yourself. Like putting a carrot on a stick,« _he says and Jon scoffs.

_»Quite the innocent way to describe Elias’ motivations,«_ Jon responds dryly.

The tape runs silent for a while, nothing but the low sounds of breathing and radio static.

_»Get on with it, will you?« _Jon finally says in an irritated tone of voice, carrying a sort of underlying tremble to it that Martin isn’t familiar with.

_»Nothing if not stubborn. Elias did say that about you,« _Peter replies and as he speaks there is a small gasp followed by the sound of fabric against fabric. Martin’s hands clench in a feeling he can’t quite place but puts in the area of rage.

_»Talked about you in great detail, about your abilities and your progress. Frankly I wouldn’t be that surprised if it turned out he fancied you, but he’s not exactly the ‘crushing’ type. What do you think?«_

Oh, he can’t possibly have heard that right. Martin reaches to press pause and rewind, but then there is another little noise on the tape, the unmistakable sound of Jon–

Of Jon doing _something,_ Martin can’t quite describe it but something between a groan and a whimper.

A swell of something helpless and defensive grows in Martin’s chest at the idea of Peter hurting him. A variety of cold swiveling theories of what is happening and what kind of trouble stupid _stupid_ Jon has gotten himself into, because of course he wouldn’t be able to stay away, when has he _ever_ listened?

_»I try not to think about him if I can help it. Am I allowed to ask questions yet?«_

Martin knows too well what Jon sounds like when he is afraid: this is not it. Agitated, low, snapping and dripping with sarcasm, not dissimilar from the tone he used to take with Martin or Tim.

_»Of course.«_

_»Wondrous. Why does–“_

Jon is cut silent by his own sharp inhale, followed by the shuffling sound of fabric being moved. A chill goes up Martin’s spine and he leans in to listen as intently as he can without holding the recorder to his ear.

Static buzzes on the tape, this time not the sharp cold harsh noise Martin knows to be the Lonely but instead the familiar and almost comforting hum he knows to be the Beholding:

»_Why did he make you the interim director?« _Jon asks, and hearing the compulsion second-hand makes something in Martin’s heart twinge with both remembrance and anguish.

_»I don’t quite know,«_ Peter says. Jon lets out a whining gasp that has Martin almost bang his knee against the table. _»I could say it was some sort of testament to him trusting me, but he really doesn’t.«_

Jon is making these little _sounds_, small noises that clearly are stifled. Martin has never heard anything come out of Jonathan Sims’ mouth that even vaguely compares.

_»It’s mutual. I think I was the first person who doesn’t actively want to kill him that he could get a hold of.«_

He is still doing it. Jon is still making those little throaty noises at a keen frequency, quiet but very much audible. Some kind of cold realization begins to crawl its way up Martin’s insides, clawing like a frantic animal begging for acknowledgement but Martin refuses to pay it any mind, refuses to think about it.

It continues for a little while, Martin doesn’t know how long, briefly interrupted by a drawn out low grumble sounding like it comes from the back of Jon’s throat before he resumes his soft groaning.

And then Jon moans in such an unambiguous manner that Martin knees the table.

_»You’re gorgeous like this. Did Elias ever take the same opportunity?«_ Peter compliments in a dangerously amused tone and Jon continues whining, humming, breathing, non-verbally pleading in abashed pleasure. Martin’s throat is dry and if not for his heart beating so heavily he would think his own chest had become hollow. He should turn it off, throw the tape out and forget he ever heard it, break it, anything but sitting still and continuing to listen to Jon’s moaning.

It feels like the world has become slow, like time has come to a stuttering pace and there is an ocean of silence between every little noise on the recorder.

On the tape, Martin hears the metallic clinking noise of a belt buckle being undone.

_»Don’t worry,«_ Peter says warmly and Martin awaits every word petrified and impatient, _»I’ll give you the nice fuck you’ve been so starved for.« _

The noise Jon lets out makes Martin want to cry. It is the kind of desperate filthy wail he has entertained in his dreams since the first time he realized he was attracted to Jon, seeing him leaning over the desk and shooting Martin a cold glare when he had opened the door. It had all gone downhill from then, Martin too frequently wondering if he could shag that well-composed demeanor out of him until he was–

_»Breathe, Archivist,« _he hears Peter instruct, and Jon abides with a half-sobbing cry and a loud gasp.

Martin ignores the uninvited thoughts of Jon splayed out on the desk and getting taken, tries to put his mind to anything but the visual of him getting fucked breathless by _Peter_ of all people.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to get any work done after this. He’s so hard he doubts he could walk properly, and God forbid he’ll use the single miserable lower-floor bathroom to rub one out to _this._

_»Not that I’m complaining, but a deal is a deal and I did agree to, ah, let you ask your questions.«_

_»How chivalrous,«_ Jon says and there is a clear strain in his voice, attempting to sound unbothered but failing to do so. Peter laughs breathily, and then the static of the Beholding blooms on the tape.

_»Why does the Lukas family don–«_

_»Oh no, Archivist,«_ Jon moans in such a shameless sobbing wail that Martin almost sobs himself, _»I won’t have you making me think of my family during this.«_

The noises Jon makes are filthier than anything Martin’s ever dared to imagine in his most indulgent fantasies, blatant begging and crying as Peter fucks him. Martin never knew he could be so loud, that he could sound so much unlike the dry stoic academic tone Martin is used to hearing.

There is the sound of skin slapping against skin and Jon’s laboured breathing. Distorted static blooms again.

_»Where’s Martin?« _Jon asks over the static, and Martin’s belly flips at hearing Jon say his name in that strained low voice. He’s dreamt of hearing his name said in that voice, and now he gets it in the form of some sort of cosmically hysterical Pyrrhic victory.

_»Right now? I don’t know. First thing he learnt, not to bother me or anyone else for that matter lest it’s necessary.« _

Despite the situation, a flash of anger cuts through the foggy misery and regretful arousal at the implication that Martin is _avoiding_ Peter when it rather is the opposite.

_»He could be anywhere,«_ Peter murmurs richly in a tone that implies triumph.

He can’t breathe.

_»There’s no guarantee he’s not watching you right now, Archivist.«_

Martin doesn’t have the time to react, because then Jon comes screaming. He closes his eyes and curls in onto himself, can’t bring himself to turn the tape off as he hears Peter fuck Jon through it, Jon shamelessly taking it and gasping and crying like Martin couldn’t even have imagined he was capable of. Jon is noisy for the rest of it, wonderful and horrible and the sweetest sort of torture Martin’s heard. He buries his head in his hands and digs his fingers into his eyes so that it hurts and light glimmers, focuses on it and anything else in the world but the sounds of Jonathan Sims getting fucked to tears and his own cock so regretfully god damn hard.

Finally Peter comes with a curt sound on the tape and Martin is almost grateful for the little wave of disgust that goes through him.

_»Right then,«_ Peter says. The rest of the tape is nothing but little huffs from Jon and the sound of maybe Peter shuffling around, but nothing more.

And then it ends and Martin inhales as deeply as he can. He feels like he’s been holding his breath for the last minute and his head is spinning. When he touches his eyes he feels the pinpricks of moisture and hates himself for getting so angry and worked up he almost started crying.

If Peter hadn’t left earlier, Martin thinks he might have tried to beat the shit out of him. He isn’t even sure why, the only reasoning he can give is some sort of sick jealousy that-

That Peter got to Jon before him.

Not even the sex, even if Martin has been pining for years.

Peter got to really see Jon before he did.

A headache is bidding at the back of Martin’s head and he groans and rubs his upper neck. He wonders what was happening before the tape, what conversation the Eye decided to listen in on halfway through. In every scenario he thinks of, his mind focuses on Jon and tries to envision what kind of situation that somehow could have ended like this.

_Yesterday_, he realizes. _This happened yesterday, when I couldn’t even get out of bed._

Martin had been too depressed to get out of bed, and in his absence Jon had fucked Peter.

_I could’ve stopped this_, comes another cold horrible thought, and Martin physically shrugs it off because he doesn’t have the time to blame himself for Jon’s stupid decisions.

He briefly considers smashing the tape, breaking it in half so that he can convince himself it never happened (_Peter’s office!? People work there - Martin works there!_) but decides against it.

It is a Friday. Jon won’t be at work tomorrow, Martin will have it put in his office when no one else is there.It’s the best option that comes to mind.

Jesus _Christ_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah… the eroticism of tapes
> 
> i'm editing this in July 2020 and the original end chapter note for this was "final chapter coming December 24th." well that wasn't true at all


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon desperately tries to make amends and hold a conversation.

More than ten years ago, when Jon was still at Oxford, Georgie had pushed a conversation about his own libido (and, most of the time, lack thereof). They had managed to have sex a _few _times_, _in an intense albeit enjoyable set of experiences, and attempts to recreate what had happened had failed awkwardly. But they _had _had sex, and it had been nice.

Jon had liked Georgie, and he had liked touching her.

He had told her he wasn’t always in the mood, that he had his moments of wanting to be touched-held-wanted-_taken_, something which only had gotten more prominent when he had began hormone treatment, and not something he could explain.

She had shrugged and kindly said, “Youjust get horny _sometimes_, Jon, it’s not that big a deal. You don’t have to explain yourself as a person, you know.”

Because he had been young and pretentious and in Oxford, he had tried to explain there were more to it. Later in life, when he and Georgie had since split, Jon would think about how right she had been. He had even told her once, when he was hiding at her place and some boxed wine had lightened the mood.

Sometimes he would liken his libido to a heart rate monitor: not being in the mood for anything for about a month, followed by a goddamn _week_ of his body being a bother and distracting. It was something he had learnt to deal with, because save for the occasional flirt and lesser mistake he hadn’t been with anyone since Georgie. The occasional wank as a stress relief or any sort of release so his mind would give him peace and he could return to working. The worst was when fingers didn’t do it and he needed to use toys, because his body had somehow convinced itself it needed to be filled.

Thursday’s occurrence had replayed in his head for the remainder of the day. He had rushed home and showered for the sake of not _dripping_ all day, at one point needing to brace himself against the wall because of a sudden unwanted hot breezing feeling in his middle that had made him groan.

_Mind over matter_, Jon had thought and internally cursed whatever bastard had come up with the expression, certain it was about something preposterous and metaphysical and not about being forced to think about the fact his best lay in years had come from fucking _Peter Lukas,_ out of all the enemies he kept around.

In the end he had taken the day off, deciding that the Institute already had taken enough blood sweat and tears from him and that one day of not being at work would be the end of him or it.

It wasn’t like Jon could get any work done either way. Between the unfortunate coincidence of persistent arousal and worrying about Martin, the rest of Thursday went by in a frustrated blur.

***

In an attempt to make up for his absence, Jon had refused to take the weekend off and instead buried himself in statements. It is treacherously comforting, drowning himself with work and the taste of fear in the written word. It’s soothing in its dread, keeps his mind off anxieties and worries. They are pleasant in their repetition, a notion Jon thinks himself morbid for considering he’s listening to nightmares.

When he is in the middle of taking notes on yellowed paper, there is a humming buzzing in the back of his head that makes him at once stand up alert and reaching for the door so quickly he almost clumsily busts it down.

“Martin!” Jon calls out before even seeing him, swinging the office door open and blindly rushing out at such speed that he and Martin almost collide. Martin freezes up at the last possible moment, and if not for the heavy frown on his face Jon would reach out and grab him by the arms to check that he is real.

“Jon,” he says in a soft exhale. His _voice_ – Jon instantly realizes how much he has missed Martin’s voice. Soft and quite high in pitch, used to be so sweet but now just tired.

There is a pause, neither of them saying anything as Jon looks Martin up and down to check if all of him is there, if he is whole or bleeding or if he has been savagely wounded – but he looks _fine_. Just fine.

“I didn’t know you worked on weekends,” Martin finally says in a severe tone, and Jon gives a little chuckle because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Oh I don’t, actually, I just– I missed out a day this week,” Jon explains, treasuring every word that is shared between them even if they’re just banalities. “And you?”

“I’ve been busy.”

There is something different in how Martin carries himself. Rather than being sort of hunched over and with his shoulders drawn up, he is standing straight so that Jon becomes aware of Martin being almost a head taller than him.

And his face – Martin’s face – it is drawn together in a sort of solemn expression that Jon has never seen on him before. It is foreign and doesn’t fit him, and with a cold pang Jon remembers how much he has missed and how much he has been unconscious (_dead_) for.

“I–, so uh,” Martin begins a little uncertainly. He reaches into his pocket takes out a tape, fiddles with it.

Jon looks at it like it is a fresh meal.

“I think– I uh– I know you like to listen to the tapes,” he explains uncertainly.

“Is it a statement?” Jon asks and waits to be handed the tape.

“Not really,” he says and his brows knit together further, looking up and avoiding eye contact as something flustered creeps up his face.

“It’s from Thursday I think? Just so that–“

Oh.

_Oh_.

The realization hits Jon like an avalanche. He tears the tape out of Martin’s hand and keeps it close as if he can hide it, holding it tighter until his hands shiver and he elects to focus on that rather than the terrible humiliation seating itself in his mouth.

Something inside Martin suddenly breaks, and his gravely serious expression vanishes.

“Jon I’m _so_ sorry,” he says in a jumbled rush as his eyes go wide and bulging beneath his glasses.

“Martin–,” Jon tries but he doesn’t stop.

“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t realize what it was, I thought maybe it was something important or something pertaining to work, I wouldn’t have listened if I knew what it was but it was unmarked and I– I’m sorry–“

Now _this_ is a fun new sensation: Jon has never before felt so humiliated he became nauseous, but here he is and with his face burning.

He scours Martin’s face for a hint of rage or disgust or anything, but the man’s face is simply large and apologetic, not too dissimilar from the ashamed expression of a cat that’s knocked over a pot.

“It’s fine,” Jon says through gritted teeth.

“It was just on a box down in- in the office,” Martin continues in a rushed babble. “I thought maybe it was a statement or something important that I had missed-“

“Martin, it’s _fine_,” Jon hisses, and Martin pinches his lips closed so quickly that Jon suddenly almost feels guilty. He forgot how much of a _bother_ conversation and feelings are.

“It–,” Jon inhales sharply, lets his tone soften, “thank you for bringing me… it.”

“Sure,” Martin spits out and looks down into the floor.

_This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me_, Jon decides promptly. Worms in his flesh, his hand being burnt, being kidnapped and moisturized on a daily basis; none of it compares in the slightest to the feeling of the way Martin is refusing to meet his gaze because of _this_.

And God in fucking heaven above, why did the Eye elect to record _that_? Was it for Elias’ own sick enjoyment – prison entertainment not quite doing it for him? Jon doesn’t understand the metaphysical laws of the tapes, maybe they simply teleport to people of interest once they’re done recording, maybe it was specifically for Martin.

Jon looks at Martin’s face, tries to meet his eyes but Martin is too focused on the floor and then the wall. He looks bashful, ashamed, fidgeting his hands in a faintly familiar habit Jon recognizes.

(_it used to drive him insane, _the Eye reminds,_ the husky Archive assistant who always offered him tea or a snack, asked him if he needed anything and then would fiddle with a pen or anything otherwise noisy until told to quit it_)

The tape is still heavy in his hands. Martin fervently refuses to look at him and watches the ceiling.

Neither of them say anything.

“You… you look nice, Martin,” Jon finally murmurs and breaks the silence, because he doesn’t know what else to say and thus falls back on basic etiquette.

Although it is true: Jon’s head had gone wild with speculations of what might’ve happened to Martin and what he might look like, alone and miserable and unkempt and starved.

Compared to Martin before all of this started, he looks like a shell of his former self. He’s lostweight, his eyes are surrounded with lines, and he doesn’t look sad – he looks just nothing at all.

But he doesn’t look bad, he really doesn’t. Not starved but still broad, wearing a thin jacket on top of a jumper, shaved and with the same pair of glasses since before the Unknowing.

Martin reacts to Jon’s comment with a startle and a frown, like if he thinks Jon is joking. His mouth drops open ever so slightly and then closes again, uncertain if he should retort or thank him.

Ever so slightly, Jon is able to see a crack in the Lonely’s grip, like a fogged up almost opaque window being shattered. It makes him bristle with hope.

“It really is good to see you,” he presses on, hoping to make the fissures grow wider. “Even if the circumstances are-“ Jon gives a little grimace, “it’s good to see you.”

Martin gives a shuddering sigh and then says, as if the words hurt to utter,

“It’s good to see you too, Jon.”

The crack in the Lonely does not budge.

When Martin makes motion to walk past and leave, Jon almost panics and has to stifle the urge to grab him and make Martin stay. He doesn’t want him to _leave_, not when he’s finally seeing Martin after so long and his chest aches with longing.

It has only been a matter of weeks for Jon, not even a month since he last saw Martin. He doesn’t feel the more than half a year that has passed since the Unknowing, Martin falling into the maw of the Lonely and pulled away from the Archives.

Martin makes a motion to walk past him, and Jon returns to the present with a start.

“Why are you doing this?” Jon snaps and it comes out more accusatory than he intended it to, echoing slightly in the rock halls of the Institute. “The Lonely, the work, staying away from everyone – why?”

“Same reason as you,” he explains plainly. “To save the world, isn’t it?”

“With _Peter Lukas_,” Jon says venomously.

The look Martin gives him in response is so unlike anything Jon has ever seen come from him. It is hollow and with a chilling anger that’s directed at _him, _almost disgusted.

“Jon, you were dead,” Martin says sharply. “I didn’t have a lot of choices.”

“But you do now. You could come back, work in the Archives–“

“Why?”

“Because I don’t–!” Jon exclaims before stopping himself with a sharp inhale. Yelling will do him no good, and when he for once has the ability to talk to Martin he refuses to have it end in an argument. Martin only regards him coldly as Jon inhales to soften himself and admits as genuinely as he can muster,

“Because I don’t think I can lose anyone else.”

He receives a joyless smile in return.

“I survived losing you,” Martin says and continues past him. “It’s not as hard as you think.”

***

> 10:58 AM || Monday, February 26th 2018
> 
> from: _jonathan.sims@magnusinstitute.com_
> 
> to: _martin.blackwood@magnusinstitute.com, mkblackw00d@gmail.com_
> 
> Martin, I’m sorry.
> 
> I realize how selfish I sounded two days ago and the truth is I was, and I am. I want you to come back to the upper floors of the Archives. I don’t

Jon clenches his fists until they cramp and hurt. Internally he curses himself for spending ninety percent of his life too busy working, reading and isolating himself to learn basic god damn human interaction. He doesn’t know what to do, and when he tries to consult the Eye the back of his head remains silent and tells him nothing.

He doesn’t know how to _do_ this, or at least not how to do it without ruining it all beyond belief. He doesn’t know how to fix this, how to make Martin talk to him and how to stop him from leaving before Jon is done talking.

After a few minutes of building up the courage to do so, Jon takes the accursed tape Martin gave him two days ago and puts it into the recorder. He only listens to the first few seconds of the tape, enough to hear his own voice say _»Even the fields« _and then instantly turns it off. Thursday’s events have already been replaying enough in his head as it is, he doesn’t need to fan those flames.

The tape only starts there, after the discussion of the agreed upon ‘arrangement’, which only was for the sake of Jon finding out where Martin was and if he was alright. Martin hadn’t heard it, hadn’t heard the entire reason why Jon had done this in the first place, had only heard him getting fucked until he came crying without knowing why.

All he had heard would have been Jon enjoying himself an embarrassing amount, and the thought makes him want to slump into himself in mute humiliation. Martin doesn’t know why he did it, and frankly that is fair because Jon doesn’t know either.

(_Ah, but he does. He does know why. He refuses to admit it to himself but he loved every second of it, getting fucked out of his own head for a couple of minutes and not having to focus on anything but being used over the desk_)

Jon exhales with a shudder. Dealing with the timely return of his libido had been easier before, when he didn’t have the fresh memory of being bent over and fucked with little regard for his own pleasure.

(_No stress and no anxieties, just bodies_)

Sometime in the future, when Jon is telling all of this to a therapist, he looks forward to getting a fine explanation of the possibly Freudian connection between his frequent run-ins with monsters and apparently liking it rough.

(_He just wishes this discovery hadn’t been with Peter Lukas_)

It’s quarter past eleven now. Jon usually has his lunch break at this time, because the Institute for all its flaws at least follows _that_ health regulation. There is a grain bread sandwich waiting in his bag with cheese lettuce and turkey, except Jon isn’t hungry at all and busy sat bouncing his legs until his knees hurt.

He thinks about how he was unable to See Peter on account of the Lonely, and about running blindly in the fog unable to find anything. Jon isn’t sure that it’s even possible to find them, the hidden eyes that lurk beneath his skin are cooperative only when they feel like it. His coworkers have made it clear that Jon using any of his ‘powers’ on them – be it compelling, Seeing or that god awfully selective habit of _mind reading_.

Using the Beholding to find Martin doesn’t feel fair or just in the slightest, but Jon does it anyway. He lets his eyes grow heavy and the constant static at the back of his head bloom and spread experimentally. He can See the Institute as clearly as if it was on CCTV, its unfriendly yellow-almost-green lights and the granite floors, open for him to look into like it is a doll house.

A few times Jon has thought about documenting the _changes_ he is going through, but decided against it. He has a stupid notion that if he takes notes on the strange terrible things he is capable, of then he is acknowledging their existence and thus making them real.

‘Seeing’ is the best way to word it, Jon doesn’t know how else to describe the way he suddenly has abstract imagery and visuals appear in his head. A close comparison would maybe be ‘awake dreaming’, but Jon isn’t romantic enough to call his affliction anything so poetic.

He sees vaguely where Martin is, on one of the higher floors for once and skulking around the hallways, looking like nothing but a large shape made out of nothing but white fog. It makes Jon waver with rage, the Lonely giving Martin its token, but he shoves it down for the time being and departs.

Jon is quite certain he could navigate the Institute with his eyes closed and the Beholding guiding him, shut-eyed walking through the corridors, but he refuses to. He thinks about the thing in the Alexandria Serapeum, the one-eyed creature that could have been an Archivist, long-fingered and ancient and inhuman.

On the off-hand possibility that Jon one day would resemble it, he wants to delay it for as long as possible. And so, he relies as much on his still human senses as he can.

Even if the Institute’s bowels have become the temporary residence of the Lonely, it is still the temple of the Beholding. Jon knows the building, and there is no Lukas to keep him from finding Martin.

Jon passes a corner adorned with an old ugly painting and the Watcher brims behind his eyes at such intensity he almost shivers. Martin is there and also elsewhere, one step in the Forsaken and hailed in fog so that the brain’s natural instinct is to _look away_. Jon of course does not, instead he eagerly rushes towards the barely visible figure and reaches for his shoulder.

“Martin–“

“_Jesus Christ!_” Martin screams and spins around with his arms raised in the air. “Good _lord_, Jon, what’s wrong with you–!“

Martin’s eyes are wide and he is clutching his chest, stumbling away and mouth hanging open in shock. Jon’s mouth drops open and closes again, coming to the realization he didn’t think this far ahead and doesn’t know what to say.

“You scared the life out of me,” Martin mutters between heavy breaths.

“Sorry for spooking you,” Jon says a little blandly. He wets his lips briefly. “I needed to see you and tell you in person, I’m sorry and–“

“Oh, don’t start with _that _again,” Martin snaps and Jon is genuinely taken aback at the sudden irritation in his tone. He can’t remember ever hearing Martin direct any sort of unhidden anger towards him, but Martin stands in front of him brimming with sudden annoyance. “Can’t you just stay out of this for _once_? Do you have to do this every time – why can’t you just mind your business this one time?”

“Because it’s dangerous,” Jon retorts and Martin gives out a laugh so cold and hollow it could have been a sob if not for the real anger in his eyes.

“This is dangerous? Everything we _do_ is dangerous, Jon! The difference here is that I’m not doing it under your supervision.”

“I miss you, Martin,” he says as truthfully as he can but it’s too late and Martin’s face distorts with a horrible mix of desperation and animosity.  
“Why won’t you just let me do this?” Martin says curtly. “Don’t act like you’ve been doing the same, ignoring everyone who cares about you and just diving nose first into danger with some faint idea of saving the _world_.”

“It’s not like that anymore-!” Jon spits out defensively.

“Well it’s too late!” Martin shouts over him, soft nasal voice made loud and standing up straight so that he is looking down on him and Jon becomes suddenly aware of the tension in Martin’s body and reflexively flinches away.

And then, as soon as it was there it’s gone and Martin sinks back into himself, wraps his arms around his frame and lowers his head between his shoulders to appear smaller.

_(he never could bring himself to raise his voice, _the Eye whispers_, every time he spoke above a peep his mother would stare at him with such fear, so certain he would hurt her)_

“It’s too late,” Martin continues softly. “You were dead. I had to move on.”

Jon wonders what entity best befits the horrible feeling of guilt and selfishness he feels. Probably the Lonely, and isn’t that just hysterical in a horrible cosmical sense.

“Do you really think that?” Jon asks and the compulsion builds up in his tone so subtly he can’t even keep it down, like the sudden unexpected feeling of tears or bile. “_That it’s too late_?”

“I don’t know,” Martin admits and maybe doesn’t notice the compulsion either. “Honestly, I _hope_ it is, because if it’s not too late then I don’t know what to do. It would be easier if it was, if you were just… if you could just mind your business and not try to _save_ me. Do you know how long I tried to save you, to help you? And you just refused, Jon. I can’t– I can’t have you turn around and then try to help me.”

Martin slumps against the wall with a heavy sigh. He sort of shrinks into himself, a stature Jon is so familiar with from when Martin would try to be as small and meek as he could be.

A sour nausea climbs up Jon’s chest. Off handedly he wonders if this is some sort of side-effect of using compulsion for things unrelated to fear, or if it’s just his own conscience making itself known.

“I wish you hadn’t come back,” Martin continues hollowly. “I wish you had stayed dead or- or whatever it was, because it was easier then, you know? I was so lonely at first, I guess that’s how Peter chose me, and then he gave me a purpose and that was it. Nothing to do but work, no one to worry about but myself, nothing else that I needed to think about. Just a monotonous routine.”

Martin lets out a little scoff and says in a voice thin by melancholy;

“And then you came back. And then everything was back to being a mess.”

He smiles that horrible joyless smile again, the one that is too similar to the one often sported by Peter Lukas and it doesn’t at _all_ fit Martin’s face.

It shouldn’t be there. The Forsaken’s influence shouldn’t be lingering on Martin, its cold tinge weighing him down and wrapping around him like a shield. Jon can practically see it, a pale embrace that pretends to be comforting but is only numbing. He wants to physically tear it apart, rip it off of him.

Instead, Jon lowers his head and with as much frankness as he can muster says,

“Martin, I’m sorry.”

At that, Martin lets out a little scoff and looks up so that he finally meets Jon’s eyes.

“Sorry?” he chuckles bitterly. “About what? Coming back to life?”

“For… _ruining_ your plans. And,” Jon goes on, wringing his hands, “for making you tell me. It just slipped out, I didn’t mean to.”

Martin’s face drops slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs and runs his tongue against the inside of his mouth. “Always wondered how that would feel. Not as painful or harrowing as I thought it’d be.” Jon doesn’t bother explaining that it would have been worse had a fear been involved.

The Forsaken’s grip is still tight around Martin like a constricting snake, refusing to budge further and it makes Jon’s entire body buzz with hope and helplessness alike.

Neither ofthem say anything for a bit, just standing in the hallway uselessly.

All the times Jon wishes he could have shut up, and now he can’t think of a single thing to say, a single question to ask Martin and delay his inevitable departure, unable to come up with anything to say that will let him hear Martin’s voice.

He doesn’t know when he’s going to see him again.

_I don’t want you to go_, Jon thinks and hopes if he thinks loud enough Martin will hear him. _I want you to stay. I want to hear you talk about what’s happened while I was gone. I want to hear you talk about nothing for hours. I want you to never see Peter Lukas again. I want the Eye to take you too and not let you go._

Oh, fuck it all.

“Tonight,” Jon stutters out and scrambles for the right words. “Tonight, when you’re done, would you like to come home with me? To me, my flat. Come– would you like to come over?”

Martin blinks at him dumbly for a moment before he gives a slight smile, a real one and not some mockery that Peter Lukas has imparted on him, a soft grin that reveals his single slight snaggletooth and makes his eyes gloss over.

“Yeah,” Martin finally says. “Yeah, I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this document is off the chains and I can't reel it in. the fifth and last chapter, god be willing, is coming the 24th or 25th


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is given a cup of tea.

Monday passes in a rush afterwards. It is one of the many days where Martin has the pleasure of not seeing Peter Lukas at all, something he is more grateful for than usual; the decision to come home with Jon balances on such a thin thread that the slightest comment from Peter would offset the balance.

It is such a fragile hunch that he feels like it might break just from thinking about it too much, that focusing too hard on the fact he is going to meet up with Jon will be enough to make him come to his senses.

If Jon had suggested that Martin came home with him just a matter of years ago, Martin would’ve agreed without a second thought. Madly, stupidly in love with him and ready to abide every little thing Jon would’ve told him, despite knowing that Jon didn’t harbour anything but an almost pitiful disregard and irritation towards him. When Jon ‘died’, that pathetic little fixation had shrunk inside him, and in the hollow it left the Lonely had made its nest.

What a weird experience it is, to feel an uneven blend of disdain and affection towards the man he once loved. He never thought he’d end up in the situation where Jonathan Sims is the one that asks Martin to come home with him, and Martin is the one who genuinely considers telling him no.

He thinks about it, shattering what remains and giving in fully to the Lonely, but the day passes and by five o’clock he has been walking on mental eggshells so that the bubble won’t burst.

When Jon sees him he makes a face of relief, as if he too was entertaining the idea of Martin not showing.

It feels weird, following tightly behind Jon as they head towards the tube but not saying anything. Every once in a while Jon turns his head as if to check that Martin is still there, which is a valid concern. Martin still feels it, a mixture of the Lonely and his common sense telling him to _leave_, that he is indulging Jon and that doing this will only make it worse. It will only spur Jon on more and he will only be more insistent in trying to weasel his way in, and Martin _knows_ he shouldn’t.

And yet he sits down on the hideously patterned train seats next to Jon, and the unfortunate comforting feeling of company makes itself known.

It is far harder to force himself to be angry and isolated with the small warm weight of Jon next to him.

Jon gets distracted by the other passengers and the views that pass them by on the train, and turns away so that Martin is stuck looking at his hair.

He suddenly thinks of a poem he read a few years ago that he doesn’t remember the title or the author of. It had a line about the_ back of someone’s head being the most intimate part of the body_, the view of the swirl of hair and the nape from someone with their back turned.

Martin stifles a hum in belated agreement. There is something vulnerable about the view, like if it is that grand a gesture that Jon trusts him enough to briefly look away and instead watch as they pass by wet streets and lit up windows.

When they first met properly, he had thought Jonathan Sims was in his early forties; dry voiced and dressed like a librarian, little streaks of silver contrasting against his black hair. The grey sprawls were bigger now, a testament to stress and overworking himself, strands constantly being tucked behind his ears because Martin doubts that Jon has ever considered a hair tie in his life.

There is a small bump by Jon’s earlobe. Martin wonders if he had an earring phase when he was younger, and then Jon turns back around to face him and Martin quickly looks away.

“It’s just two stops left,” he informs. He has yet to tell Martin whatever plans he has for the two of them, and Martin hasn’t bothered to ask because he doubts Jon has anything in mind. Jon is a lot of things but subtle has never been one of them, being a charmingly bad liar despite his very verbal profession, and Martin knows in his heart that Jon is just keeping him busy in some vain hope of ‘saving’ him. And Martin is the idiot willingly letting himself be dragged along.

Jon’s flat is tiny and smells cramped, not particularly lived in but still very clean. When Martin hangs off his jacket he notes that beside the one Jon was wearing, the rack is barren save for the familiar green anorak he knows Jon to wear in the rain. The shoe selection is similarly small, one pair of boots and one pair of sneakers. Martin imagines Jon’s salary to be somewhat above his own, which means that the very modestly furnished apartment isn’t because he can’t afford anything else.

Jon’s entire apartment is simple and frugal, with the kitchen and the living room being connected in one small junction, no TV and a small navy colored couch. On the kitchen counter there is a charmingly retro radio which Jon turns on immediately, serving as silent background noise as he sets about making them tea. The kettle is a dirty old brass, without an automatic off-switch and stains showing it to be well used.

“Do you remember any of it?” Martin asks. Jon looks back at him from the cupboards with a puzzled look on his face.

“The coma, I mean,” he explains. “People usually don’t dream during, but it wasn’t exactly a usual experience.”

“No I don’t,” Jon replies decisively. “Maybe little fragments here and there, but it’s all just a blur. I remember the Unknowing, and then I woke up and six months had passed.”

A sort of cold wave of empathic terror crashes through Martin’s gut.

“Just like that?” he asks. Jon nods.

“Just like that. Could just as well have been that I went to bed after work and woke up to find out half a year had gone by. Didn’t feel any different from a nap,” he says in a dry sarcastic tone that makes Martin’s heart ache, because suddenly it feels like it’s two years ago and he’s in the Archives watching this slight man laugh at his own self destruction.

_It’s not like that anymore_, Martin forcibly tells himself. _It’s over. Stop it._

Jon hands him a steaming mug with the London Eye painted on it in an abstract painterly style. It doesn’t fit in with the rest of the vague theme of the apartment, almost definitely a gift. It clashes awfully with Jon’s aesthetic.

“Why am I here?” Martin asks both Jon as well as himself. “Are you gonna try to tide me back over to the Archives with tea?”

“Definitely better than attempting it empty-handed,” Jon mutters half-heartedly and sits down on the couch a polite distance away from him. The apartment is pleasantly warm, with a heater stood in the corner and a series of candles on top of Jon’s bookshelves. Rather than any paintings or frames, Jon has cork boards on the walls covered in photos, notes, post cards, what looks like old letters and other things he has simply pinned to it. It doesn’t look haphazard or in any way _suspicious_, but instead a strangely intimate collection of things Jon has seen fit to keep.

Martin tears his eyes from it and looks into his tea. It smells dark and vanilla, and Martin wonders if Jon has paid enough attention to his habits over the years to know Martin’s tastes or if he simply Knows.

The radio is playing at a volume just loud enough for Martin to hear there’s two people talking.

“Why did you do it?” he asks and Jon peers up at him and blinks in a birdlike way. Martin opens his mouth to continue, but then Jon snaps the rest of it out of the air and goes,

“Oh. _Oh_. It was to get information,” he tells him promptly and tries to hide an air of abashment beneath stoic professionalism. “I went into the lower levels to find something, to see if you were there. Peter told me he would be willing to answer some questions if I–“

Martin’s face must reveal something, be cause Jon suddenly stops himself and his eyes go wide.

“Oh good Lord, no, not like that – he didn’t _pressure_ me,” he adds in a rushed hiss, emphasis on the word ‘pressure’. “It wasn’t meant to happen. It was an accident.”

“An accident,” Martin repeats emptily as _to see if you were there_ dazedly rings in his head. A relief flutters through his chest at _didn’t pressure me_, because even though he doubts Peter could overpower Jon it’s been a worry nagging at the depths of his mind. God, if Peter had hurt him – Martin honestly thinks he would’ve killed him.

Besides that, his brain uselessly replays parts of the tape he stumbled upon: Jon straining to say his name and then the unfortunate convergence of Peter bringing Martin up and–

“And if you care to call me a hypocrite for it, I can’t say I disagree with that notion,” Jon suddenly continues in a dry matter of fact tone. “The tape elected to start a few minutes after I’d bumped into him. The plan was to sneak into his office early enough that it would be empty, but he was there. Appeared out of thin air as it was, and then…” he waves his hand.

“He’ll do that,” adds Martin in a hollow tone.

“It wasn’t even six in the morning yet. Means that either he comes in awfully early even by my own standards, or he sleeps somewhere down there.” Jon’s nose wrinkles in disdain and he sips from his mug. “Wonderful finally meeting him at least. I hope you don’t decide to take anything on the tape as _affection_. It was _work_.”

The idea that it was anything but hadn’t even crossed Martin’s thoughts. He huffs and tastes his own tea.

“Tell me about him?” Jon asks after a moment has passed. Martin realizes with a frown there’s no compulsion in his voice.

“Seriously? That’s what you want to talk about?” he asks with a scoff, and Jon’s eyes narrow.

“You won’t let me help you or half the time even see you,” he explains slowly, like to a child. “If you're so damn set on doing this until the end,you could at least give me the benefit of knowing who he is.”

“So you can stop him?” Martin puts his cup down.

“Would that be so bad?”

“You’re not the only one trying to save the world, Jon.”

“And is that what he’s doing? Is that why he’s isolating you and keeping you away from everyone — so that you can help him save the world?” Jon sits upright to better look him in the eye. “He’s a monster, Martin, he unabashedly lives off of fear and misery, what would it benefit him to _save the world_?”

“What would it benefit you?,” Martin returns and sits up as well. “You do that too, you haven’t killed people,” (_as far as I know,_ his brain shrilly supplies), “but you’re… eating fears, just the same, the difference being you’re polite about it.”

If Jon takes offense, he doesn’t show it past his already enraged expression narrowing further.

“Why do you trust him? Why are you with him, did me dying, Tim, the entire Unknowing — was all of it horrible enough to make you turn sides?”

“So what if it did! There was nothing left for me,” Martin says exasperated.

“But there is now,” Jon insists.

“And what would that be? _You_?”

Jon’s jaw opens and closes like a fish, completely silent and unmoving save for his heaving shoulders. His eyes are wide and he’s clutching the cup so firmly it might break, and he’s says nothing because any comment now would be an acknowledgment of what they both know.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says unexpectedly and catches Martin somewhat off guard.

“Don’t do that,” he grumbles lowly in response. “Don’t start that again–“

“I wish I had been there, after the Unknowing,” Jon continues and Martin looks away. “Not even necessarily just me, I wish you hadn’t been so alone–“

“Stop it,” Martin hisses out and buries his face in his hands.

“No one deserves that, Martin. I’m not sure anyone deserves _any_ of this, but we’ve come too far and there’s no going back now. I wish that I hadn’t died, and that I could’ve been there so I could’ve stopped you.”

“God, just shut up,” he growls into his palms. “Jon just stop, stop putting the entire world on your shoulders, stop acting like everything ever is your fault and then making _me_ feel bad about it.”

“I didn’t mean to–“

“I know you didn’t! I know!” Martin shouts between his hands. “You’re just trying to help me and doing a _rubbish_ job at it, and I know that because I used to try to help you and be just as rubbish. It _never_ works.”

Martin stays like that, back turned and staring at the floor through between his fingers. He’s so angry he thinks he might start trembling, sick of repeating himself because how many times can Jon be told to just let him do this. How stupid does he think he is — _of course_ Martin knows it’s dangerous, _of course_ he knows that Peter is a monster, and _of course_ Jon himself knows that it’s not even a matter of the lesser of two evils. There is no better or more trustworthy option. There’s no point in trying to go back now.

A hand is suddenly placed on Martin’s shoulder and he gasps as if scalded.

It burns, hot like a kettle after boiling or like touching a radiator, the sort of intense itching pain that goes on until it almost starts to feel good.

He exhales with a shudder and the hand is still there, Jon is still touching him and his hand is so heavy it feels like molten lead on Martin’s back. He can’t bring himself to shrug it off, despite the nausea building up in his chest and crawling up his throat.

There is a gentle _clink_ of Jon putting his cup on the table. When Martin turns around he can see the intense contemplation in his eyes before Jon leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

If Martin had been just a sliver less wound up, he would’ve tossed Jon off of him and called him out for using such a cheap tactic to shut him up. But he _is_ wound up, he is emotional and unable to think of why this is stupid, only able to think, _I’m finally kissing Jonathan Sims._

Then he thinks about them, about the entirety of them the last few years – Jon having outright disliked him for the first few years of knowing one another; his constant disregard and Martin still being stupidly fixated; when the Unknowing and his mother’s death had happened within months of one another; when Peter showed him the comfort in solitude and for a while that was all there was.

Jon’s mouth is so warm and he tastes like tea.

_Idiot_, Martin thinks bitterly and it is aimed at them both, and then he grabs Jon by the shoulders. Jon makes a little noise of surprise when Martin pulls him in and kisses him proper. He sinks his hands into Martin’s hair and scratches his nails against his neck, and Martin huffs and puts one hand on Jon’s slim waist.

“Are you trying to snog the Lonely off of me?” he asks.

“No. Yes. A little,” Jon snaps and crawls into his lap. The gentler part of Martin’s mind, the one that’s not clouded with a regret and anger, is able to appreciate just the physical aspect of this. Jon fits a little awkwardly against him, wiry limbs trying to wrap around Martin and his fine hands grabbing at his head with surprising strength. Maybe it is desperate affection or maybe he mirrors Martin’s own frustrations, because Jon’s touches are not at all gentle.

One hand is weaving through Martin’s hair and digging nails into his scalp, while the other is on Martin’s chest for support. Martin grabs Jon by the hips and pulls him in to grind against him, and Jon lets out a curt _‘ah’ _that sends an alert jolt up Martin’s spine.

He thinks about the tape. About the noises Jon made as Peter fucked him, about the keen moans wordlessly begging for more. Any other point of Martin’s life and he would have been gentle and moved with Jon slowly, enjoying every moment and every inch of his skin and drawing it out as long as he could.

Not now. Firmly he grabs Jon’s hair and pulls enough to reveal his soft throat, kisses where Daisy left her mark an eternity ago and sucks just below Jon’s jawline. Jon lets out a pitiful noise and bucks forwards, and for a second Martin’s head spins with wanton. He scrambles to hold onto Martin’s shoulders and just weakly moves along as Martin ravishes his throat with tongue, teeth, and lip. Every little noise that he can’t stifle and falls out of his mouth is like sweet music. He lets out an affronted hum of protest when Martin stops and pulls away to say,

“Are you doing this to humour me?”

“What?” Jon asks blearily. His eyelids are heavy and the dazed expression on his face is a sight Martin thinks he could sustain off of for the rest of his life.

“Are you doing this just so I’ll feel better?” Martin demands. “Tossing me a bone to make up for everything? Because if that’s the idea I’ll just go, right now. This isn’t _work, _I’m not doing this unless you want to.”

“I’m not _pity-shagging_ you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jon mutters back in a tone that is too dry and snide for Martin’s liking. “Of course it’s not _work_.”

He scoffs softly and puts both arms around Jon’s waist and lifts him up, enjoying the shocked yelp Jon lets out maybe a bit too much as he carries him away from the couch.

They manage to get all the way to Jon’s modestly furnished bedroom before Martin realizes neither of them finished their tea. He decides to make it a later problem, because then they’re on Jon’s king sized bed and Martin feels him exhale against his ear.

Jon is so _small_ beneath him, he’s of average height and narrow while Martin is tall and always has been too broad and too large. He’s stood bracing against his knees and hands, and he’s enough of a man to admit that Jon’s legs spread and wrapped around his waist is making him almost dizzy.

_Sensitive_ isn’t something Martin expected from Jon, loud but stifled noises and a curt shout when Martin grasps his thigh. He leans away somewhat so that he can see Jon’s face change as Martin touches him, screwing his eyes shut and mouth half open just from Martin touching his waist and inner thighs.

There is a fine combination of frustration, regret and arousal dulling Martin’s logical thinking now. The little voice at the back of his head telling him what a bad idea this is has been thoroughly drowned out by the sight of Jon flushed and sprawled out beneath him.

He just never thought he’d live to see it.

It makes something hot flutter in his belly and his knees wobble.

Jon reveals himself to not be much for foreplay, because the moment he can he lifts his hips off of the bed and shimmies out of his trousers.

“I might not have what you’re expecting,” he murmurs lowly and Martin briefly wonders _what the fuck does that mean?_ before touching Jon through his underwear. He feels a cooling wet patch and bristling hair through the soft fabric, and Jon gasps and pushes up against his hand despite the touch being so scarce.

“Oh, you–,” Martin starts and then cuts himself off before the conversation can delve into something personal, “right, do you have a condom?”

Jon frowns at him like Martin’s asked something completely asinine instead of a very reasonable question to pose pre-coitus.

“You don’t need it,” he says and Martin’s brows shoot up in silent questioning. “I can’t get sick and I really doubt there would be any issue, so unless you care to pop down to Tesco–,”

“Point taken,” Martin says and is unable to stifle a half-amused scowl at Jon’s tone. He dips between his legs and in a moment of sudden affection he kisses the skin next to Jon’s trail of sparse hair, and is rewarded with a huff.

Despite his frustrations, Martin has no intents at all to hurt Jon or even be particularly rough. He can’t shake away the stream of old fantasies he used to entertain, or taking Jon apart slowly and gently until he was begging for it. They hadn’t dissipated but only changed when he heard the tape of Basira and Melanie’s _office gossip_ regarding Jon and Georgie’s relation. At that point in his life Martin had been so pitifully in love that a scrap of Jon’s attention was enough to send his heart racing.

With his head between Jon’s legs the reality of the situation hits him, and Martin lets out a shuddering gasp before collecting himself and dipping down. He presses his tongue against the slick silk and receives an immediate reaction as Jon’s entire body goes tense as piano string and he draws his legs up.

_Sensitive_, Martin thinks contently and puts his hands on Jon’s thighs. Jon is mostly loud shallow breaths as Martin gets to working him, teasing him through his pants at first and then his mouth on bare skin. A little faster than Martin would’ve liked to, but it’s not with the intent of making Jon come against his face but rather to get him ready. Sort of blunt aimless licks and huffs and then with ease slipping a finger inside because Jon is soaked.

One finger inside and his thumb lazily touching Jon’s folds, Martin sits back up to get a better look as Jon writhes and hides his face in his hands.

“Jon,” he says and a single wet eye peers up between Jon’s index finger and thumb. Martin’s heart gives an unfortunate twinge, because even now and despite everything it makes him weak at the knees to see Jon like this.

“Look at me. Is that good?” Martin asks. Jon nods, and Martin gently shakes his head and says, “out loud, Jon. You wanted to talk to me, so talk. Tell me.”

“Good, it’s good.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and his voice is a little hoarser than expected. “Lube?”

In response, Jon almost leaps off of his fingers in a hurry to reach the bedside drawer to retrieve a tube with a pump. He hands it to Martin and then, as if he can’t really help himself, grabs Martin by the collar and tugs him in to kiss him firmly. Martin kisses back with a little grunt in the back of his throat, and then he goes to slick his fingers up.

Jon’s back arches and he screws his eyes shut when Martin adds another finger, scissoring them wide. He doesn’t look away or cover his eyes this time, just keeps Martin’s gaze with dark slightly teary eyes and a flushed expression. His glasses have been placed carelessly on a pillow, and Martin would take his own off but refuses to miss a single moment or millimetre of the scene. Memorizing every little detail, every little noise because god will he not be able to forgive himself if he forgets any part of this.

Jon cries out when Martin has three fingers inside of him gently levering in and out, and Martin is suddenly struck by the cruel thought of making Jon come from this alone and fucking him while he’s still recovering. He physically shakes the thought out of his head and murmurs a silent reprimand to himself.

“Martin, please, get on with it,” Jon says and his voice has shifted from dry stoicism to a pleasant desperation. Martin pushes his fingers in to the knuckles and presses up to a soft sensitive spot, Jon arches his back with a groan and then Martin retracts.

“You're sure about this?” he asks and sits upright to undo his belt. His dick is so hard that the feeling of his jeans moving is like being fucking tased.

“Christ, how certain do I have to be?” Jon mutters and gives Martin a glare that’s charmingly dignified despite lying on his back, half naked and with his legs splayed. “How stupid do you think I am?”

(_Very_, Martin doesn’t say.)

“I really don’t want my first lay in three years to be because you think this is the right way to get me on your side,” Martin tells him sourly. “So if you’re doing this because you take pity on me or– or you’re trying to get _information_ out of me, now is the time to tell me.”

Jon’s eyes narrow up at him, briefly flickering down to where Martin’s own dick is straining against his own underwear before looking back up. His entire expression is tight with vaguely reigned in lust and slight disdain.

“No, I assure you that this is not like that, Martin,” he says sharply. “Do you have any further hang ups or are you going to make me beg for it?”

The visual of Jon begging and pleading in a babbled mess floats through Martin’s thoughts pleasantly. That would be a sight – either making him come until he lost count, or maybe fucking him but not letting him come until he’s really _really_ begging for it.

Shame that both of them seem to currently lack the patience for it.

“Right then,” Martin murmurs and grabs Jon by the legs. The proud disdain immediately vanishes from his face as Martin bluntly rearranges him, positions Jon so that they are almost stomach to stomach and Jon’s legs are in the air. There is a little flicker in his eyes as Martin takes his cock out, and briefly that terrible giddy weakness returns to his knees.

Never before in his life has he been as acutely aware of their discrepancy in size and stature, that if he put both his hands on either side of Jon’s waist he could just hold him; that he easily could grab both Jon’s legs and just splay him, keep his legs spread for his own leisure.

It makes him go a little light-headed, and he would be more ashamed of that if not for the fact that Jon looked to be just as enraptured by similar thoughts.

Jon is completely silent when Martin enters him, eyes large and mouth half open as he grips Martin’s shoulders until his nails dig in. Martin lets out a soft ‘oh’ when he’s seated all the way inside, closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure so he doesn’t blow his load there and then. Jon is tight and struggling around him, chest rapidly rising and sinking with little gasps. He stays still for a little while, letting them both adjust before he shifts slightly and causing Jon to let out a moan that sends sparks flying down Martin’s spine. Martin braces himself with his hands against the mattress, gently rocking himself inside Jon’s heat because Jon is seized up too tightly for him to move further.

“Good,” he tells him before Martin can ask, “just one second _ah-_“

“Relax,” Martin says, and Jon does so with a huff.

His legs are wound around Martin’s waist, squeezing slightly as he finds a rhythm of slowly fucking into Jon in shallow thrusts that send him breathless. Jon’s eyes peer up at him, dark and wet and fighting to stay open, and if this had happened a matter of years ago Martin would’ve come right then. Instead he leans in and kisses Jon on the mouth, and Jon kisses him back as if starved. Martin jerks his hips up sharply and Jon cries out against his lips, stifled moans next to Martin’s ear as he leans down and kisses Jon’s throat.

There is a dark red blotch on Jon’s jugular, and the idea of thirty-year old Archivist Jonathan Sims having to hide a hickey delights him more than it should.

There is a sheen of sweat covering them both now and Martin vaguely regrets not having taken off his shirt before they started. Jon is _warm_, painfully hot to the touch as if some entity-induced aposematism trying to avert Martin from straying from isolation.

At this point the only thing, other than Jon, that could make him change his mind and stop would require a greater act of God.

Little cues about what Jon likes are all over the place; when Martin picks up a rougher pace he clenches around him and trembles, furiously trying to hold back his own noises as Martin keeps his legs spread and leaves him no choice but to take it. He uses his weight as a sort of leverage, burying himself to the hip and fucking Jon in heavy strokes that has him covering his own mouth to shut up.

He thinks about the tape and the hapless noises Jon let out then, and a slightly sinister part of him wants to outdo it. He thinks about making Jon come until he’s crying, about filling his cunt, about turning Jon face down into the sheets and fucking him speechless, getting him off better than Peter did.

Martin shudders and pulls away slightly, making Jon let out a small noise of protest, rearranging them so that he can hook his hands under Jon’s knees and position him better. Jon’s legs are up by his shoulders and he is just looking up at him with his eyes so bizarrely vulnerable, and when Martin pushes back inside he scrambles up to kiss him.

“You’re doing so well,” Martin mumbles warmly against Jon’s mouth, forehead to forehead, and Jon scowls slightly at the praise so Martin has no option but to continue.

“So good. So wet for me,” he tells affectionately and feels Jon’s breath hitch beneath him. “You look so good like this, Jon, I could just keep you here for hours–“

“Fuck!” Jon shouts high-pitched, and that’s all the warning Martin gets before he squeezes his legs so tight around his waist that it hurts, curling in on himself and crying out as he unexpectedly comes tight around Martin’s cock. It takes him by enough surprise that he almost loses his standing and collapses against the mattress with Jon still beneath him. He moves along gently, small rolling movements of his hips as Jon seizes around him and moans into Martin’s shoulder.

Martin doesn’t stop, keeps going with them both low into the bed now so that he is grinding into Jon rather than thrusting. The entire time Jon is babbling right next to his ear _fuck Martin god don’t stop don’t stop I can’t I can’t _until his otherwise so dangerous speech is rendered into overwhelmed whining.

He never imagined Jon would be this warm – he’s hot, almost burning to the touch. Martin doesn’t know how much of it is a reflection of their shared inhumanity or maybe just simple exertion. Jon has never proved himself to be particularly physically enduring, but the way he trembles beneath him in overstimulation is still unexpected.

When Martin comes hard inside him, buried to the hilt and holding him tightly, Jon lets out a bright _oh _and clenches down on him again. It’s not even loud this time, Jon is just huffing and trembling and Martin lets out a breathy choked back shout as his vision briefly greys out.

He has to actually still himself and inhale, suddenly lightheaded and dizzy and a faint buzzing ringing in his head beneath the sound of Jon’s gasping. Every limb feels like hot molten cotton, and Martin isn’t sure he’s going to be able to ever move again.

The ringing doesn’t leave.

Martin dearly hopes he’s not going to pass out.

Jon is suddenly shivering beneath him and Martin looks down and is briefly terrified that he’s hurt him, seeing tears on Jon’s cheeks, but then he notices that the bastard is _laughing_.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks and when Jon shifts he becomes acutely aware that he is still sheathed inside him and the hot wet sensation is becoming too much.

“Of _course_ I’m not,” Jon responds breathily and looks up at him with those soft brown eyes, still wet and teary from exertion. “But not because of this. No this is– this is. This was okay.”

“_Okay_. Not a generous adjective,” he murmurs and climbs off of Jon, too light-headed for his tone to have any actual point to it.

“No, not like–,” Jon tries to move too quickly and Martin feels the sheets move as he shudders, “it was okay. It was good. Thank you.”

Martin sighs slightly.

“You don’t have to thank me for sleeping with you, Jon.”

“I’ve been informed I have awful bedside manners,” he mutters in a familiar bitter tone, but it is a little sweetened and low. “I’m not sure what else to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Martin assures him. He’s half laid down on the bed next to Jon, still half hard and Jon has barely put his pants back on, and still _this_ is what feels uncomfortably intimate. Martin drags his own pants back up and has to force back the urge to yawn, not particularly proud over his sudden exhaustion.

“What time is it?” he asks after a stretch of silence. Jon checks his wristwatch.

“Quarter to seven,” Jon says and the exhaustion in Martin’s limbs suddenly seems more sensible.

“Right then,” he murmurs very quietly. “I should go before it’s too late.”

“Do you want to?” Jon asks him in that same almost vulnerable, almost soft tone that doesn’t fit his mouth at all. It is genuine, not compulsion and not a thinly veiled jab or an insult.

Martin hums softly.

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter doesn't know it yet, but there is approximately a dozen metaphysically penned and sent emails from Elias, informing him that he is going to maul him in ways so creative that _"Peter Lukas"_ will be remembered as an adjective synonymous with _"annihilated"_
> 
> i wanted this to end in a threesome but frankly this has already gotten out of hand enough. i can't even remember what the original purpose of this was. happy holidays


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon resumes schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know where this is going but it isn't ending yet. more indulgence

> **Tuesday, February 27th, 2018**

Jon wakes up disoriented and covered in sweat.

At first it feels like he is running a fever. His head is foggy, the sheets are damp and hot, everything is a horrible sticky warmth. It takes him a few moments of waking up to realize that he’s not alone, and that the cause of the warmth persuading his covers is Martin sleeping next to him.

He’s close. He isn’t really embracing Jon, just lying next to him, close enough that with every asleep breath his stomach brushes against Jon’s back and the mattress moves.

The nest of blankets is suffocatingly warm. Jon’s neck hurts from sleeping at a strange angle, and his mouth is dry as sand with no glass of water to be seen. Despite the discomfort it takes him a few minutes to even think of the option to leave.

Martin is here.

Warm and large and honestly keeping Jon from sleeping comfortably, but here. Jon wishes his neck wasn’t twisted so god-awfully, because he would not at all mind staying here, hang onto Martin’s presence a little longer. Eventually the fact he needs to use the bathroom wins over the wish for affection, and he shifts out of the bed as softly as possible. Martin doesn’t react in the slightest.

While showering Jon discovers himself to be incredibly well rested for once, probably on account of falling asleep early and not waking up once. There is a dull ache in every joint of his body and a slight shame blossoming in his chest when he washes the dried up mess of his thighs. It is nothing to be ashamed of, even _he_ knows that. But in the aftermath he just becomes flustered with what he’s done, and Jon’s breath shudders slightly when he brushes at the light bruising on his hips and waist.

Jon hadn’t anticipated himself to so much enjoy Martin being stronger than him.

His reflection shines back at him looking bleary and perpetually exhausted as ever, and Jon recoils slightly when he sees dark splotches around his throat.

There are a series of ruddy purple marks here surrounding the scar Daisy left him and at first Jon wonders what the hell they are, before the realization dawns dumbly.

“You gave me a _hickey?_” Jon calls out when he opens the bathroom door. Martin stirs slightly in the bed and peers up above the sheets squinting.

“Yeah I did,” Martin murmurs softly. “What time is it?”

“Half past eight.”

“Christ alive,” he mutters, “I’m exhausted.”

“We slept ten hours,” Jon says as he pulls his clothes back on.

“And I could sleep ten more. I’m utterly out. I’m drowning in your bed.”

“It’s memory foam.”

“S’great.”

Martin makes no move to get out of bed. He stretches his arms above his head and lets out a groan in the back of his throat, writhing beneath the sheets in a sight that makes Jon’s chest feel light.

Here, Martin is here, in his flat and in his bed. If past encounters are to be any sort of guide then it isn’t going to last long, any moment Martin will find the isolation within him and leave in an awkward rush.

“I’m not headed into work today,” Martin suddenly says and and Jon flinches in surprise.

“Are you alright?” he asks and moves in a little closer so he is stood by the foot of the bed.

“No. I mean, yes, considering what we’re used to at the Institute,” Martin answers and scratches his forehead contemplatively.

It is too vulnerable, Martin dazed and half asleep in his bed.

Seeing him still tired and with his hair a mess, rubbing his face and blinking at Jon with a sort of softness.

“Can I get you something?” Jon offers and hates how thin his voice sounds.

Martin shakes his head.

“I think it’s the Beholding,” he says nonchalantly. “I felt it yesterday. Touching you was like – eh – putting the opposite ends of two magnets together. It almost hurt. Something didn’t want it, but I pushed, and now I feel like I’ve got the flu.”

Jon reflexively opens his mouth to apologize, but then Martin’s cold words from last night chime inside his head, about blaming himself for everything. Even if he has accidentally hurt Martin, and Jon is burning to tell him he is sorry.

“You can stay here,” Jon offers instead, before the subject of leaving even comes up. “If you’re that tired, I’m not going to usher you out of my apartment. It’s fine, really. Promise.”

“Okay,” Martin mumbles and needs no further conviction. He utters something else, an inarticulate noise that could either be _bye_ or _night_, and Jon leaves him be.

As he leaves the flat, Jon thinks about the exhaustion that would grip people after giving or reading statements. The entities taking their toll on the inexperienced, Jon included – in the beginning the statements had been exhausting, being so much more than words on paper. Martin is by no means lacking experience with the entities, or the statements, and still he is lying passed out in Jon’s apartment.

_Good_, Jon thinks sourly. If Martin can be weakened just by the presence of an entity, that means he is still human. Or at the very least, he is more human than Jon. Good.

Jon had never viewed Martin is a strong man, at least not mentally. Not intimidating, soft spoken, eager to help and kind. It was intentional, of course. Martin had shaped himself to be as unthreatening as possible to balance out his height and stature,

_(–the resemblance between father and son was truly remarkable, quite likely some of the reasoning for Martin never growing out his beard–)_

and Jon knows better than to think of Martin as defenseless. Out of the two of them, Martin was in much better shape and unlike Jon, he looked like he remembered to take care of himself. Tall and somewhat heavy-set, thick arms and large hands. Up until a few days ago, Jon hadn’t really considered Martin from any physical aspect. That Martin was taller than him, that his shoulders were broader, that his hands with ease could envelop Jon’s – of course he hadn’t paid it mind.

Now, on the other hand, it won’t leave his thoughts.

Jon is stood on the train and an echo of the feeling of Martin touching his stomach flutters by. Makes his grip on the subway handle suddenly clench, sets off an immature buzzing sensation in his chest, his breath suddenly becomes a little deeper.

It’s not even the sexual part that makes him flustered (though it does contribute), but the memory of warm firm presses. Of being held down by Martin, feeling the squeeze of his frame against Jon’s, the vulnerability of trust.

Jon reaches up and brushes his fingers agains his throat where he knows the love-bruising and marks Martin left are. He had needed to wear a thick and neck-high jumper to hide the marked skin, (_hickeys, Martin, really?_) but kept subconsciously reaching up and touching it.

Between the leftovers of Martin’s affection and the scar Daisy put on his throat, Jon’s neck is beginning to look an unprofessional level of defaced.

***

There is a slight pep in Jon’s step as he heads into work. The knowledge that Martin is safe and sound in his flat makes his chest feel light and breezy. Even as Jon’s thoughts inevitably devolve into the knowledge that _this won’t last, he still belongs to the Lonely_, there is a roiling warm relief that won’t let his mood be brought down.

Ridiculous, really. Jon thinks about the thousands of annoying songs on the radio where people sing their hearts out about a single person making their day or their life brighter, that they can’t stop smiling and various cheesy analogies. Jon’s nose wrinkles in soft distaste, never really having cared for music.

There’s no reason to be in a good mood. Lukas still holds domain of the Institute, Melanie hasn’t been seen since the bullet was cut out of her leg, half the staff are _dead_ and Martin will probably be gone by the time Jon gets back home.

And still, stood alone in the cafeteria as he adds honey to his tea, Jon feels the sweet clinging remains of hope hanging onto him.

He chooses to work in one of the more open rooms, and when he sees Basira walk past the door he dashes after her to say hello as well as inform her,

“I spoke to Martin yesterday.”

“What, for more than just a moment?” Basira blinks in light surprise when Jon nods. She pauses and gives a little breathy chuckle. “Figures. Did you try to convince him to return to the Archives or is he still set on being an assistant of the Lonely?”

“He’s convinced he’s doing the right thing,” Jon responds. Basira scoffs slightly.

“So? Maybe he is. I can’t imagine what we’re doing is anywhere less _evil_.” She demonstratively waves her fingers at the last word, as if she can’t take it seriously either. 

“What, you– you_ support_ what he’s doing?” Jon asks astonished.

Basira shrugs one shoulder.

“He’s not working against us, Jon. I don’t like it either, but I don’t think he’s our enemy in this. He isn’t actively trying to sabotage us, and for now that’s good enough.”

“For ‘now’?” Jon repeats blankly. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t have the time to deal with it yet. I don’t trust any part of it either, but right now there’s more pressing matters than Martin and Lukas _maybe_ plotting.”

Jon thinks about Melanie’s wild reddened eyes and her screaming, the utter distrust and the _fear_ of him as she took the scalpel and plunged it into his shoulder. Thinks about the entities having found out the Institute is up to something and giving it their focus, the Flesh attacking and whatever else might lurk in the walls.

From that particular perspective, Martin working under a different evil older man isn’t really worth much concern.

The Eye begins whispering to him; _she is postponing her own feelings until all of this is over. She stopped crying over Daisy the first week after she was gone, doesn’t have time to react until all of this has calmed down. Just a little more, then she’ll deal with this, once it’s all over_.

It rings strangely familiar.

“You’re right,” he tells Basira softly. She visibly steps back in surprise, and her mouth drops open in speechless shock as Jon continues, “sorry, Basira.”

Two seconds pass in complete silence.

Basira’s eyes are dark and blank. There are lines of stress beneath them.

“Yeah, sure,” she utters uncertainly. She frowns deeply and discretely tries to scrutinize him, eyes darting up and down as if Jon is going to spontaneously grow new limbs and reveal himself to be an evil clone.

“Alright then,” she murmurs, still uncharacteristically dumbfounded, and makes motion to leave. “Good luck with… whatever. See you later.”

“See you,” Jon replies politely and watches as she leaves. It isn’t the Eye that lets him know it would be a bad idea to express further empathy, but just simple deduction. Basira wouldn’t allow herself to be explicitly pitied, not by herself and not by anyone else. The least he can do, Jon thinks, is at least not put more things worthy of concern on her plate.

Jon has been busy with work for maybe an hour by the time he hears someone approach. At first he thinks it might be Basira, but then he _feels_ it, feels the chill and the isolation climbing out of the hallway like vines crawling up a wall.

It is subtle enough that Jon doubts he would have recognized it as anything out of the ordinary if he hadn’t grown acquainted with it. The numbing chilling sensation in his chest, spreading like someone has placed ice on top of his sternum. He watches as a foggy shape walks past the doorframe, right past Jon without pause and looks down the hall leading to the cafeteria.

“Peter,” Jon greets dry as tinder, lets the Beholding seep into his voice so that Lukas is violently dragged out of the Lonely. Peter flinches and gasps as if hurt, and Jon takes more enjoyment than he cares to admit in seeing Peter genuinely caught off guard.

“_Don’t_ do that,” Peter hisses out between his teeth. He straightens his jacket and visibly attempts to regain some of his composure, and Jon brims with quiet triumph. There is a real disgruntlement in Peter’s face in response to being caught.

“Why are you here?” Jon returns completely without pity.

“I’m looking for my assistant,” Peter says and a shiver goes up Jon’s spine.

“He’s home sick today,” he responds curtly.

“Oh, terrific,” Peter says with bright sarcasm. “I can’t get any work done without him.”

“What a shame.”

Peter makes no move to imply he is leaving or returning to the Lonely. Instead he loiters in the large office, leaning over various tables and eyeing papers, folders and the walls like he’s never seen them before. He comes somewhat closer when he approaches one of the framed papers on the wall and leans in to inspect it.

Jon takes a deep breath and forces himself to ignore Peter, refusing to ask him to leave because that will showcase weakness on his part. No, Peter is a nuisance and nothing else – Jon returns to the work on the desk, his own notes and a smaller list of non-digital statements. It is not particularly hard to resume the task, Peter for all his flaws is politely silent and at the moment busy with a book he has pulled out from a shelf.

Off handedly, Jon reaches to touch at his collar without really thinking about it, dances his fingers over flushed skin. It has become a little bit of a fidget, the texture of a shirt he rarely wears and touching where he knows Martin left his imprint.

In the corner of his eye, he notices that Peter is watching him.

“What’s on your neck?” Peter asks. Jon’s hand instantly darts back to the table.

“Nothing,” he blurts out too quickly.

Shit.

“Did you get yourself hurt again?” Peter asks in an annoyed accusatory tone, as if Jon is a cat that repeatedly has managed to get stuck in the same place. 

“I said it’s _nothing_,” Jon snaps. He stands up and backs away Peter walks towards him with fast steps in a weak attempt to get away.

“Elias’ll have my hide if I let you get hurt somehow.” Peter reaches for his collar. “Show me.”

“I told you it’s not_– _don’t touch me.”

Jon backs up against the wall and flinches away from his hand, but Peter doesn’t let up and practically corners him. His brows are drawn together in conviction that Jon has gotten himself hurt, standing too close and still with a hand raised in question. Jon considers swatting it.

“Elias was very specific about keeping you in one piece until his return,” Peter informs him. His frown is deep and almost genuine, showcasing a real care for Jon’s wellbeing even if it is just for his own gain. Jon refuses to budge.

“So? It’s _nothing_,” he tells Peter curtly.

“You’re better than the old Robinson regarding a lot of aspects, I’ll tell you that, but lying ent one of them,” Peter says with an uncomfortable amount of honesty. “Work with me. Show me what happened.”

Jon doesn’t mistake his tone as kindness for a moment. Whatever concern Peter harbours for his health presumably begins and ends with the possibility of being chewed out by Elias.

It is a maliciously alluring thought, to let Lukas end up in trouble over Jon getting ‘hurt,’ assuming that Elias wasn’t watching last night’s spectacle and doesn’t already know.

Not to mention Peter being so insistent, convinced that Jon has managed to get himself mangled since the last time they saw one another and refusing to let him go.

A very long time ago, Tim had told Jon he was about as subtle as a brick through a window.

Of course _Peter _of all people would be here to notice.

Jon runs his tongue along his teeth in thought. He inhales sharply to bolden himself, reaches up and tugs down the collar of his sweater and reveals the god-damn hickey that Martin left on him. There’s a few more of them, but the one on his jugular is the most prominent in a dark splotchy red.

A _hickey_, like they had been two horny teenagers.

Peter leans in closer to get a better look and Jon feels his breath very faintly against his skin. He squints at it, then his brows shoot up and he articulately blurts out,

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” Jon says between clenched teeth. “Are we done?”

“Hm. Thought I could smell him on you,” Peter murmurs and Jon wonders if it is a thinly veiled insult.

For a man heralding from a family reputed for solitude and isolation, Peter Lukas has little to no regard for personal space. Crouched somewhat to properly inspect Jon’s throat, faint smell of salt and a very weak aftershave.

“Martin is home sick, eh?” he asks and the corner of his mouth curls somewhat. “I suspected you had something to do with his absence, sure, but not _this_.”

Peter unexpectedly reaches out and touches his neck, and Jon gives a slight startle. The pads of his fingers are dry and rough when they brush against his skin. Jon seethes internally at his body betraying him and giving an involuntary shudder, as well as his eyes suddenly feeling heavy.

“I’d rather you stop stealing away my assistant, Sims,” Peter murmurs and his finger circles the apple of Jon’s throat. “He’s perfectly capable of making his own choices without your influence.”

Too close. Peter is stood too close.

The Beholding whistles in the back of his head, like a Geiger counter going off at his presence. Jon’s thoughts become distant and trudged, grabbing onto the flat surface of the wall behind him and focusing on the texture of the lacquer against his fingers.

“Is this your doing?” Jon finally manages to spit out. Peter’s hand slows somewhat.

“What is?”

“This– the Lonely. Making– having me feel…,” Jon swallows and frowns as he considers what descriptor suits his situation best. Desperate, needing touch, keen, on the side of pathetic, maybe outright idiotic.

“…_Pliant_ to stupid choices.”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?” Peter huffs. “No, Sims, whatever is happening in that mind of yours, I’d have to say it’s all you.”

In becoming an avatar for an entity feeding off fear, Jon had discovered there to be a feedback aspect. Like an ouroboros eating itself to death, it was as though he could feed off of his own fear.

It had made Jon into somewhat of a thrill-seeker, a trait he never anticipated himself to have. It had made him readier to make stupid decisions for the sake of knowledge.

Like bedding a monster.

A nail very gently scrapes down the curve of Jon’s throat. He inhales through his nose and finally finds the ability to speak.

“Get away from me and _leave_,” Jon says decisively and Peter freezes still. For a brief moment Jon’s words manage to dig into his skin, the Beholding clawing at Peter Lukas’ very being and almost seeing all of him for who he is.

Peter shudders before he takes a polite step back and makes way to leave Jon be.

“Have a nice day, Archivist,” he tells him before he turns heel and disappears into the fog.

***

Jon returns to his flat around 6 PM. When he opens the door, he almost walks straight into Martin who clearly was just about to leave. He stumbles back as to not collide face-first into Martin’s chest, bracing himself against the doorframe as to not fall onto the floor.

“Oh,” Martin says a little blankly. “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be home already.”

Martin’s hair is somewhat damp and hangs loosely around his ears, and Jon thinks Martin must’ve used his shower. The skin around his eyes is smooth with rest and his anxious frown isn’t as deep.

“Are you leaving?” Jon asks and therein states the obvious.

“Yeah. I gotta go home, make dinner and get into fresh clothes.” Martin touches the zipper of his jacket and fiddles with it in a familiar nervous tic.

“Am I going to see you again?” Jon refuses to be as impolite as to ask to be invited to Martin’s apartment. He doesn’t know what else to say but so dearly wants to continue their conversation.

“…yeah,” Martin says after a pause. Martin has over the years proved himself to be a frighteningly good liar, but his voice is soft and slow and Jon chooses to believe it.

“Right,” murmurs Jon and steps out of Martin’s way so he can continue out into the coldly-lit hallway of the apartment complex.

Watching as Martin leaves, Jon opens his mouth to bid him good-bye but what comes out instead is a pathetic sounding, “Martin, wait.”

Martin turns around.

Jon reaches out and cups his face gently, and kisses him on the mouth softly but too drawn out for it to be chaste. He has to stand somewhat on his toes and pull Martin down slightly to reach him. Martin puts his own hands on top of Jon’s, and Jon expects him to pull them away, but instead he simply holds them there until the kiss ends.

> **Wednesday, February 28th, 2018**

One thing he can say for certain is that he does not enjoy Peter having grown bolder over the last few days. The Lonely feels like an infestation in the Institute’s deep, like a lodged underwater net that moves slightly with the streams but refuses to be removed. It is as if in Elias absence, the Beholding’s grip has faded and now allows room for other entities to attempt to take over.

Jon wonders if the others can feel it as well, or if the sensation belongs exclusively to the Eye’s pupil.

Peter can’t sneak up on him anymore, at least not as well. With the spirit of the Lonely on his mind, if he focuses hard enough he can almost see the world of the I-am-not-here flickering in the corners of reality. He can practically hear Elias in the back of his head cooing ‘_such progress made all on your own_.’

And still, Peter manages to catch him by surprise in the hallways.

“Do you need any help, Archivist?” Peter asks loudly and out of nowhere right when Jon thinks he’s alone, and he leaps terrified at the sudden sound of Peter’s voice.

“No thank you,” Jon responds and manages to sound incredibly ill-humored despite his heart still hammering as he recovers from the shock.

“Oh, are you certain?” Peter follows along with him and his eyes sparkle with a honesty that is as kind as a well-meaning as a bear-trap to a foot. “As far as I can tell, I hear you’re a bit understaffed right now.”

“What do you _want, _Peter?” Jon snaps, careful to keep his tone free of compulsion.

Peter’s mouth quirks into a sharp grin and he spreads his arms in mockery of a welcoming gesture.

“I just want to give you a helping hand, Sims. Now, I know you don’t like me,” Jon rolls his eyes, “but Elias is fond of you. So, I have to take decent care of you.”

“Oh, is that what you call it? Were those Elias’ orders – _decent care_?”

Jon stops in his tracks and turns to meet Peter eye-to-eye. Save for the two of them, the hallway is completely empty and every step and every word echoes. They are stood outside what Jon is pretty sure used to be the printing room, but now lies mostly abandoned.

“Call it whatever you want,” Peter says nonchalantly. “Keeping up employee morale, or something of that kind. I’m not really used to the hands-on approach, most of the time I like to entrust my employees with being able to handle themselves. S’pose you’re keeping the tradition alive – troublemaker Archivists.”

Peter reaches up to absentmindedly scratch his beard, and the noise grates at Jon’s psyche. He is standing too close again, except he’s not; there is a polite distance between them, with Jon backed up against the wall and Lukas stood next to him.

On his neck, Jon can see a hint of tattoos hidden away by his sweater.

The sour taste of anticipation grows in the back of Jon’s throat.

It has been just short of a week since their last _encounter_ down in the lower floors. The memory strikes with hot shame and suddenly Jon has to look away and instead stares into the empty printing room.

“Oh, that’s good,” Peter says in a low tone that is equal parts delight and mockery. “You miss him, don’t you? The two of you are frankly adorable. Almost hurts me to keep you separate.”

He moves in just a little closer and his presence becomes oppressive. It’s the combination that is too much: the memory of Martin’s hands and his warmth is still fresh in Jon’s mind, and then Peter steps close so that Jon can feel the heat radiating off of his frame.

This wasn’t meant to happen again.

The puff of a warm breath touches the back of Jon’s neck, and he grabs onto the frame of the door to steady himself.

“Take my word for it – Martin really can’t get enough of you,” Peter murmurs right by his ear and Jon sucks in a breath. “When you were in the hospital I had to keep him occupied, or he was going to get his heartbreak in the way of work. Now? Now I’m struggling keeping him away from you, like a dog with a bone.”

Jon’s grip tightens on the doorframe as Peter pulls at the collar of his sweater, skirts fingers over the fading kiss-marks and exhales against his skin. The touching is still just short of being sensual, barely stepping past the lines of something platonic, as if Peter is testing his way forwards.

And then Peter puts his mouth on Jon’s neck, not tenderly enough for it to be a kiss but just mouthing and pressing lip to marked up skin as he says,

“I can fuck you better.”

An involuntary noise slips from the back of Jon’s throat.

“You are a god damn _bother_,” he says in one weak exhale and has to brace himself against the wall. “Get it out of your system already,” he hisses in a persistent attempt to sound unaffected.

“Oh, but I would so hate to interrupt your schedule—“

“Do you need a written invitation and a signature?” Jon cuts him off. “Go for it.”

A pause as Peter crowds closer.

“If you insist,” he then muses in a conversational tone, as if he is agreeing to a favor.

Jon lets out an indignant yelp of surprise when Peter turns him around and _lifts him up _and puts him on his shoulder like he is a sack of flour, carries him into the empty printing room and puts him down face first on the table in a frankly unnecessary display. Then he is on top of him, kicks Jon’s legs apart and grabs him from behind.

The touching is more drawn out but rougher this time, Peter groping him through his jeans and squeezing between his thighs so persistently Jon wonders if Peter intends to make him come in his pants. Peter is heavy on top of him and Jon is sharply aware of every languid rut against his arse, doing his best to keep his breathing regular and stay silent.

Peter pushes his trousers down without moving away from him, still slotted on top of him as a solid warm weight that makes it difficult to focus. His mouth is occupied with Jon’s neck, nibbling and exhaling in a manner that is horribly distracting as he keeps Jon pinned beneath him.

“Do you think Martin’ll be cross if I mark you up?” Peter asks with lurid interest, exhaling warmly against Jon’s jawline. “Let him see how whorish you Beholding folks really can be? Insatiable.”

“He–,” Peter drags his fingers over the scar on his throat and Jon briefly forgets what words are, “he knows.”

There is a slight victory to be had in how Peter suddenly freezes still as he considers this.

“You tell him?” he asks.

“The Eye did.” Jon wriggles slightly beneath him, keenly aware of the sensation of rough fabric against the bare skin of his thighs. “Beholding decided to listen in. One of the tape recorders.”

“God I can’t stand those things,” Peter mutters and then _bites_ him. It’s not hard enough to hurt but the sudden sharp sensation against his neck makes Jon let out a startled gasp. His heart beats so furiously Jon wonders if the thumping can be felt through the desk, firmly held in place as Peter takes him apart with rough impatient hands. He grinds lazily against Jon’s arse and drags teeth over his neck, putting one hand between Jon’s legs and groping him through his pants.

In his chest there is a bidding combination of excitement, loathing and arousal that is so intense it almost makes him nauseous.

And all the while, the Eye drinks it in, and Jon’s skin shivers beneath it.

“Bit of an exhibitionist, Archivist,” Peter murmurs contently into Jon’s nape as if he knows exactly what he is thinking. Jon recalls the relationship between him and Elias and is suddenly struck by the horrible thought that it was _just like this_, that the attraction between Forsaken and Beholding is some kind of pattern.

Peter rubs the flat of his hand against Jon’s cock and continues, “Goes with the occupation, though can’t say I expected that from you, of all people.”

“_God_ do you really like the sound of your own voice,” Jon grumbles out against the surface of the desk. Above him, Peter lets out a barely contained and shockingly genuine laughter that Jon feels against his back.

“Not particularly fond of being the one not doing the talking for once?” Peter asks him and Jon tilts his head up to glare at him.

“I think you are enjoying this an excessive amount,” he mutters under his breath in response. A hand is placed on his side and Peter turns him over on his back like he weighs nothing.

“I’d argue that in this particular context you’re plenty enjoyable,” Peter tells him with a cheerful tone and with his eyes occupied with Jon’s nethers.

It might be the worst part. Not the fact that Jon is doing this again with the memory of Martin still flush on his memory, not the fact he’s so turned on and anticipating it hurts.

The worst part is the fact that Jon can actually _feel_ Peter’s pallid eyes brim with appreciation for him and for his body. It’s not the burning mingle of adoration and rage that he felt coming from Martin, being held and beheld as Jon and as the Archivist. Knowing writhes its way into his mind, that Peter is here because _he gets to play with Elias’ toys_.

The kiss still comes as a surprise. It’s on the mouth, drawn out and heavy enough that Jon has trouble catching his breath. He puts a rough hand beneath Jon’s sweater, and when Jon’s mouth falls open in a somewhat affronted gasp and Peter takes the opportunity to take his lower lip between his teeth.

His hands are strong and firm enough for the sensation to be just a hair below painful, pinching Jon’s nipple and then touching one of the two scars that leap across his chest. There is no tenderness behind it, just plain curiosity as he takes Jon apart.

Foreplay is made into quicker work than last time. By the time he finally reaches down and pushes two fingers into Jon’s cunt, he is soaked with sweat and shuddering whilst Peter’s breath comes infuriatingly even.

He is rough in a way that Martin wasn’t, impatient and pressing his fingers down so that Jon groans in the back of his throat and involuntarily bucks upwards. The entire time his breath and teeth are flush with Jon’s neck, and one horrible second Jon wonders if Peter intends to get him off like this. He refuses to beg or even show any gratitude when this proves not to be the case and Peter buries himself balls-deep.

He is _strong_ and he moves a little faster than Jon can easily handle, a firm grip on Jon’s hips as he holds him in place and fucks him at a hard pace. It isn’t painful, not really, it’s just so _much_ and Jon has to bite down on Peter’s shoulder to shut himself up.

Even with the roughness of it, Jon ends up coming shamefully early considering that he’s being fucked with zero regard for his own pleasure, no attention even being paid to his clit. The climax is so intense it almost hurts, and of course Peter fucks him through it and then some. Jon is vaguely aware that Lukas is talking, lewd words next to his ear that he doesn’t hear over the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He comes a second time after that, too quickly and with too little time to recover, and Jon reaches back to grab onto the edge of the table because his hands need to hold onto _something_ or he fears he might pass out.

By the time Peter’s rhythm becomes more stuttering Jon is covered in a sheen of sweat and writhing against the table and his mouth is dry from drawing shuddering breaths. He gives out a little whine in the very depth of his throat when Peter finally comes inside him with an almost amused huff, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside him. He stays like that for a while, breath heavy and weighing down on Jon’s overstimulated insides as Jon blinks blearily at the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact.

“R-right,” he says weakly after half a minute of gathering his composure. “Thank you–,”

“Oh, but you’re so nice and wet now, though,” Peter argues happily and to make a point pushes his fingers inside his own mess, swirling and splaying them aimlessly and with a shameful ease.

Jon bites back a noise and thinks very hard about the list of reasons he ought leave instead, get back to work, anything. He could tell Peter ‘no’ and this would come to an end.

Faintly he thinks of what a mess he must look, glasses strewn to the side and wet with slick and come, shirt rucked up and neck thoroughly marked.

If he focuses hard enough, he can almost feel Elias watch them both.

“Okay,” Jon says instead. He lets out an abrupt shout when Peter lifts him up and carries him, not even particularly far but just to the carpet on the floor and sits down with Jon in his lap.

Calling it _riding_ would be doing the word a disservice; Jon is arranged with his back turned to Peter as the man holds his arms in place and languidly fucks up into him. He has no agency in it, just sat straddled over Peter’s cock as the man shallowly thrusts into him and Jon no longer can hold back any pitiful whining. _Proportional_ is a way to describe Peter, able to envelop Jon’s wrists in his hands and hold them so that Jon’s arms are restrained behind him and he has to rely on the good trust of Peter fucking Lukas.

It leads Jon to abandon most complex thinking and just letting it happen, cock stuffed inside him and so deep it almost itches, hisses out _‘shitshitshitSHIT’ _and comes so hard he almost starts sobbing. Peter doesn’t stop, fucks him through it and warmly murmurs in his ear,

“See what I mean? That dry academic exterior but just wanting to get fucked like you deserve.” His hips stutter and Jon’s core winds tight as Peter all but purrs against his neck;

“Martin’s too gentle on you.”

“God would you shut _up–!_”

“Elias is watching of course, probably fuming he couldn’t be here,” Peter continues as if enraptured by his own words, “but Martin? Don’t know if he’d try to kill me or try to get a piece of you himself.”

Neither of them last long after that. When Jon finally comes, he falls back on Peter’s chest with enough weight to hear a grunt in return beneath him. He still feels it, inner waves of heat crashing into and through him, a thrill in his loins and his gut as if Peter is still inside him. He feels Lukas’ chest rise and fall under him, and Jon finds bitter relief that the man is for once flustered and physically exerted.

“You know, I’m not the cuddling type,” Peter tells him after moment in an uncharacteristically abashed tone.

“Christ– Give me a moment,” Jon mutters back, sour at the implication he’s currently rested atop of Peter’s chest for any reason but utter exhaustion. Instantly he realizes his patience for Peter has run very dry, and Jon crawls off of his chest and gets up on his knees. The moment he’s confident in his legs working he pulls his trousers back up, ignoring the mess still between his thighs, and leaves.

In a fascinating twist, Jon finds it easier to focus for the remainder of the day.

> **Friday, March 2nd 2018**

Jon isn’t sure if his connection with the Beholding has gotten stronger or if Martin’s resolve has weakened. Martin has become more frequent at work, sometimes darting just out of sight in the corner’s of Jon’s vision, leaving traces of himself in the kitchen in the form of cooling kettles and used tea infusers.

Trying to speak to him is still like a bit like trying to hunt down a deer, skittish and watching patiently until approached. It feels stupid, having to sneak up on _Martin_ of all people, but Jon still waits until he finds him at the kitchen counter and is too busy making tea to hear him stand in the doorframe.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Jon asks and surprises himself by sounding quite confident.

Martin startles and the spoon clinks loudly against the inside of the cup.

“Um,” he begins and then frowns deeply. “Maybe. What are you making?”

Jon at once realizes he did not plan ahead and in fact forgot about this part. It must show on his face, because Martin gives him a smile that almost could be considered _smug_, which is a feeling Jon wasn’t aware that Martin even had.

“Were you gonna invite me to your flat for some pizza?” he asks warmly and Jon wrinkles his nose.

“It _might _have been Indian,” he murmurs snidely. Martin is not at all put off by his tone, if anything his face softens further.

“Do you know how to cook?” he asks and puts the cup aside. Jon gives a shrug and an indeterminate hand gesture.

“I’m _familiar_ with most of the basic makings of food,” Jon explains. “Not entirely certain on what I have in my fridge at the moment, but I have rice–“

“I ask because I have some chicken that needs to be eaten before the week ends,” Martin cuts him off. “Was going to bring some of it with me for lunch today but I forgot it at home. In case you–“

“Yes,” Jon interrupts him in turn before Martin can finish the sentence. “Yes, that sounds like a better idea.”

“Okay, alright then.”

Both of them nod a little awkwardly and say nothing. Martin taps his finger against the kitchen counter and Jon politely does not make eye contact. This part is difficult, the silence waiting to be broken but Jon has nothing to say.

_What do people even talk about?_ he thinks to himself. _The weather, what you’re doing for the weekend, what you’ve done this week? _Jon thinks about bringing up his ‘encounter’ with Peter in any sort of pleasant context while talking to Martin, and inwardly grimaces.

“Do you like fizzy drinks?” Martin asks him.

“…unfortunately, yes,” Jon mutters, and Martin laughs. “I didn’t _use_ to, never touched the stuff while in uni. Really didn’t expect my thirties to come with a sudden appreciation for sugar, especially now that I’ve lost the metabolism for it.”

“I’ve made this broccoli-chicken-rice stir fry a few times. I think it would go good with coke, if you’d like.”

Jon feels his mouth actually water at the thought. He ransacks his mind to remember if he has any different plans or if he in any way could cook for Martin, and in the process feels drops of Knowing writhe their way in, (_–is Jon alright? Whatever he and Peter are doing it is stupid – Martin makes a nice stir fry, he wonders if Jon likes soy sauce, does he have any allergies? – he can’t remember the last time he had a coke, he’ll have to go to Marks –_)

Jon can cook half decently but prefers to sustain himself off a diet of yoghurt and sandwiches, very rarely having found a meal that he enjoyed enough to put up with the drawn out process of cooking. As of lately he has discovered he doesn’t even need to eat at all, that it has become just a part of the routine. It is a terrifying thought, that what he once used to do out of necessity to stay alive has become just a habit.

Maybe that’s the best he can do.

“I would very much like that,” Jon tells Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that for now. next(?) chapter coming 24th Jan. hopefully


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello welcome back to the last chapter of “Jonathan Sims gets railed so hard he has character development.” This time, featuring minimal railing.  
i'm honestly not that satisfied with this chapter (pro-tip, don't let your buzzed one-shots get out of hand without any planning) but it has its moments [gestures welcomingly]

Martin lives in a terraced house made of dirty red bricks, some of which are covered in climbing moss. The doorframe implies it to be very old and Jon spots a _very_ narrow staircase leading to the upper floor.

“I’m sorry if it’s cold,” Martin excuses as he closes the door behind them and takes off his jacket but keeps on his sweater.

“It’s alright,” responds Jon and squints in the dimly lit hallway.

Cooking with company turns out to be marginally less boring than cooking on his lonesome. Jon wonders if there’s any particular reason behind this, but decides not to question it too much – no need to overthink it.

Martin’s kitchen is barely large enough to fit them both, resulting a lot of reaching over one another to retrieve things from drawers and standing awkwardly in the corner to make room while the other person is busy with the pan.

It doesn’t take long to fall into the ease of it, frying the onions, grilling the chicken over the stovetop and then boiling the rice. It is almost easy like this, conversation being little more than ‘can you mince the garlic’ and with the sizzling of the pan filling the silence in between words. Intimate in its wordlessness, and Jon doesn’t even really think about it when he touches Martin’s arm while reaching for a drawer.

When it’s done, it turns out that Martin was correct – the stir fry they made tasted absolutely delightfully with a coke.

Later on Jon kisses Martin on the mouth, and Martin kisses back before he pulls away and mumbles something about ‘_my breath is probably awful, garlic and soy’_, and Jon says he doubts his own is any better.

Even later the same evening he is apologizing up and down as he leaves, explaining that he at all isn’t ready to spend the night. It’s not because he isn’t emotionally ready but because he has put off doing laundry for days now, and desperately needs to get to that or he is going to be down to his very last pair of socks and underwear.

“It’s fine,” Martin tells him, but there is something scraped up and rough beneath his tone that makes Jon’s heart _ache_ over leaving.

“I’ll be back tomorrow at evening?” he offers instead, and then hastily adds, “if you’ll have me, of course.”

Martin chuckles very softly.

“Of course,” he replies.

**Saturday, March 3rd, 2018**

_“Hi Jon,”_ Georgie says on the phone when he calls her, sounding bright as ever.

“Hey George, can I ask you for some advice? Oh,” Jon spontaneously remembers etiquette, “also nice to hear from you, I hope you’re doing well.”

The phone crackles with the sound of Georgie chuckling mutely into the receiver. He has to put one hand over his other ear to shut out the sounds of the life milling about the streets, cars driving by and gently smattering rain on the overhangs.

_“I’m fine, actually I just met up with Melanie,”_ there is something sharp and slightly scolding in Georgie’s tone, though not quite bringing up the involuntary surgery, _“and I’m about to edit an episode. You?_”

“Yes, yes, I’m terrific – do you know anything about flowers?”

_“I’ve heard of them?”_

“Bouquets, the like, floral etiquette? Giving someone flowers or something like that.”

_“Not really. I think it’s only something people over forty do_,” she says thoughtfully. _“I don’t recall ever receiving flowers, but I don’t know what you’d do with them. Tulips die in, like, four days.”_

“Tulips, right. Alright, that’s good to know,” Jon confirms and turns heel from the flower shop he’s been eyeing for the better part of a quarter. There is a quite prominent smile in Georgie’s voice as she says,

_“Are you going on a date?”_

“Thank you for the help,” Jon says curtly. “I have to go now.”

_“Oh my god, you–!”_

“Bye,” he interrupts and hangs up before she can continue.

His grandmother would always put weight in not showing up to people empty-handed. Jon had never shared the sentiment much, but the comment makes itself known in the back of his head as he knocks on the door of Martin’s house. It doesn’t matter much – Martin welcomes him with tentative warmth nonetheless.

They don’t talk about boundaries, about how long Jon intends to stay because that will be an acknowledgement of this happening at all. Whatever is between them is fragile, like a stack of cards balanced perfectly but ready to crumble at the slightest jarring movement.

So neither of them mention it as it happens. Jon puts his bag in Martin’s room, they have dinner together and don’t need to exchange many words. When evening comes Martin _insists_ on making them both tea as they sit in the couch, watching whatever channels pass by on the tiny little cube Martin passes off as a television.

As of late, Jon has realized he really likes touching Martin. A newly acquired habit is putting his arms around Martin’s broad chest and weaving his hands together around his frame. Using himself as a sort of human chain to stop Martin from thinking of leaving, even when they are in Martin’s own home.

They are just sat on the couch and holding onto one another, and Jon worries if it’s enough. Martin’s body is warm against his own, though not the same burning heat from the first time they slept together and the friction between Forsaken and Beholding resulted in Martin’s exhaustion.

There is a part of Jon that is silently furious with the fact he has been with Peter more than he has with Martin. That he’s had more moments of intimacy with a man he hates (_but for some reason allows to touch him_) than he has with Martin, it makes something angry and bitter curl in the pit of his chest.

Viewing sex as a chore isn’t the right attitude when going in, as Jon has learned over the years. He _can_ enjoy it, even when he’s not in the mood – orgasms are by nature designed to be enjoyable, and the feeling of a warm body against his own isn’t terrible.

Georgie had told him ‘_it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey_’ regarding sex, and that it’s not only about getting off but about the before as well. The anticipation, the rush, the achievement and finality of climax, and then the aftermath.

Sometimes Jon could agree with this sentiment – leading to him and Georgie having had some successful attempts – but most of the time it just seemed like an awful amount of time and work.

He imagines Martin would feel the same way. It’s not hard imagining that horrible cold rage and anguish returning to Martin’s eyes, upon finding out Jon would sleep with him just for the sake of making some equation in his head break even.

Jon puts his head on Martin’s shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh. Martin puts his hand on his knee and it is enough.

**Thursday, March 8th, 2018**

Lately Jon has felt like his time at the Institute is when he is in the real world, and everything that happens outside its brick walls is like a drawn out play he doesn’t know the script of. Everything that happens outside of the tapes and the Archives is as if fake, as if it won’t matter in the end and only prolongs the inevitable.

It serves as a treacherous allure to fully give himself into the work and forgo his life outside of it, but Jon refuses to listen to it. He isn’t sure if it is the Eye trying to coerce him in deeper, or if it is just his own thinking. At this point, Jon doubts there is much of a difference between the two.

Frankly he doesn’t mind it either. He continues his days as usual, coming in early in the mornings so he can be done before the evening.

As he approaches the cafeteria he hears the indistinct sound of people talking, not loud enough for him to make out any words but just enough for him to pick out Basira’s low voice.

“…that one but not all of them,” he hears her say as he comes closer and is now close enough to hear the low hum of the quite ancient coffee machine brewing.

“Only way I could see them being Web is if you take Hitchcock’s mishmash of themes into consideration,” Basira continues. “Like organizing a cooperation of entities or something like that. Okay, right, this one’s difficult–“ 

Jon almost stumbles over his own feet when Basira is interrupted by the clear voice of Peter Lukas saying,

“None of them are difficult because none of it is right, all of them are Web.” He sounds bored and just a little irritated instead of the typical cheer Jon has grown to know and loathe.

Basira scoffs. “You’re telling me that _The Thing_ is Web?” she asks sounding affronted.

“M‘fraid I don’t know what that is in detail. Jog my memory?”

“If it happened in real life – and considering all the shit we’ve seen, it’s really not that impossible – it would be Corruption or Flesh clear as day.”

Jon steps into the cafeteria and is met with the truly bizarre sight of Basira leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, and Peter stood against the fridge. Basira turns to him and gives a curt nod as greeting, and only then does Jon start thinking that maybe this is really happening and not a fever dream.

“Morning, Jon,” Basira says. “You met the boss yet?”

A quick gesture to Peter, who is looking like the very image of the word self-satisfied and giving Jon a _far_ too familiar smile.

“Yes I have,” Jon says briskly and continues before he is asked to elaborate, “what the hell is going on?”

“I was trying to figure out how to use the printer, and I happened to walk upon miss Hussain,” Peter informs him and his smile becomes a jovial grin.

Jon feels his face heat up, and he is suddenly struck by the quite appealing thought of beating Peter to death with his bare hands.

“Jon, you familiar with John Carpenter?” Basira asks him, as if this is a completely normal situation for them all to be in. Like they’re all normal people at a normal job, and Jon is too flabbergasted to do anything but go along with it.

“Am I ‘familiar’ with– yes, I’ve seen _The Thing _and _Halloween_, what– what are you talking about?”

“Do you think the movie would fit under Flesh or Web?” she presses on and Jon blinks wildly as he tries to process the question and decide if it is even worth to be answered.

“I guess Flesh or- or Corruption?” He chuckles darkly in disbelief directed mostly towards himself. “Not Web, for sure.”

Basira extends one arm towards Peter.

“See?” she says. “Professional opinion right there.”

Peter shakes his head and frowns.

“Unless a movie represents a physical manifestation of another entity, it is solidly Web. Almost every single anomalous cinematic work has been the Mother because that is simply the nature of what she does.”

When Basira takes this at face value and opens her mouth to respond, Jon finds his words again and loudly interrupts,

“Sorry, sorry– what the hell is going on?”

“We’re discussing what horror films would be which entity,” Basira explains in a sort of dry tone that implies she knows just how ridiculous the concept is. “It’s not particularly work efficient, but the coffee machine takes ages to brew and you have to make your own fun.”

“With Peter,” he says blankly.

“Right,” Basira agrees and clearly doesn’t seem to grasp the full context of what she’s doing.

Jon wonders how long they’ve been in the middle of this conversation, Basira out of all people discussing movies with _Peter Lukas_ and acting like their work is a magazine quiz. The casual atmosphere hanging in the room is completely unfamiliar, Basira’s frown is soft and Peter is watching her with a lazy interest with seemingly no hidden motives.

Jon can’t remember the last time he had a completely normal conversation in the Institute.

When Peter turns to him with a knowing little smile and mouth open to say something, Jon shoots him a glare (_you will leave. get out of my Archives. leave._) so intense that Peter physically recoils. The presence of the Lonely is suddenly there, looming and waiting like a shield for Lukas to retreat into.

“Coffee’s done,” Peter murmurs and it’s the last thing he says before he unceremoniously leaves, mug in hand. Jon shudders slightly as the force of the compulsion goes out of him like a light.

“Christ, Sims, what’d he do to you?” Basira asks after a moment, and Jon stands up alert.

“What?” he asks as every hair on the back of his neck prickles.

“Did he run over your dog or something? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry,” Basira says and lets out a little amused huff. “Remind me to never get on Martin’s bad side if that’s how you get.”

“He’s a monster!” Jon exclaims. “He’s a really dangerous person, and not someone that you– that you talk _movies_ with.”

The casual attitude has passed and a familiar exhaustion and annoyance has appeared over Basira’s features, and Jon feels a slight twinge of guilt.

“I know that, Jon,” she says as she pours herself a cup from the pot. “Don’t worry, I won’t… step over to the dark side or whatever. Just passing the time, discussing cinema.”

Jon trepidatiously watches as she adds a dash of cold water and two sugars to her mug, arms crossed and trying to think if there’s anything he can tell her. From a certain point of view he is just as untrustworthy as Peter, just another avatar that she is forced to rely on until all of this is over.

“_The Brood_,” Jon says aloud. Basira frowns slightly at him.

“Pardon?”

“_The Brood, _directed by Cronenberg. You mentioned _The Thing_ being Corruption or Flesh, and if we’re already on that track,” Jon shrugs absentmindedly, “it’s worth mentioning.”

Basira pauses for a second, considering this, and then lets out a soft scoff.

“Corruption for sure,” she says. “It’s got it all – parasitism, weird love, bonds, disease. If this job ever becomes marketable, God forbid, that film’s a pretty good crash course for the whole entity.”

“Frankly, Cronenberg being an avatar of the Rot makes for a not unbelievable hypothesis,” Jon mutters.Briefly, he spots the corner of Basira’s mouth quirking upwards.

**Friday, March 16th, 2018**

Nowadays Jon spends an evenly distributed time at his own apartment as well as Martin’s house. The intimacy of an open door is almost overwhelming, of always being invited in and just having Martin in his vicinity. It still catches Jon by surprise, to have Martin not actively avoid him.

They still do not speak of it but simply pass it back and forth in silence, some agreement when they touch and when they share the same space. Martin’s living room is connected to the kitchen and by far Jon’s favorite part of the small house, the very model of the word _cozy_. The one sofa is big enough to stretch out completely in, old enough for the fabric to look like it could crumple from a thorough brushing.

Jon is sat and busy reading a book in slightly too dim lighting when he hears Martin approach, followed by the gentle rusting of the cushion behind him as he leans in and kisses the skin beneath Jon’s ear.

It feels like a few of Jon’s nerves short circuit, unable to keep his eyes open because of the sensation of Martin’s nose brushing gently against his jawline.

“Am I interrupting you?” Martin asks kindly into his neck when Jon reaches out to put his book on the table, reluctant to pull away from his mouth for even a second.

“God no– not at all,” Jon says eagerly and reaches one hand back to urge Martin in closer, and Martin crawls down into the sofa as well. He puts one arm around Jon’s waist and a slightly disconcerting shudder goes up his spine, but Jon ignores it and nestles closer instead. Martin allows himself to be pushed down so that Jon is sat on top of him, head bent back slightly so Martin can keep kissing him, strong hands on Jon’s narrow frame moving up and down.

There is something buzzing right under the skin of Jon’s fingertips. Not the Beholding or unwanted premonitions from any entity, just a sort of silent discomfort he feels in his limbs and in the back of his throat. Something thick and sour-tasting, but easy enough to ignore as Jon moves closer and they end up chest to chest.

And then he feels Martin’s hard bulge brush against his thigh.

_No_, screams the entirety of Jon’s being and the discomfort washes over him like a cold shower. 

“Stop,” Jon exhales thinly at first and then louder, “wait, stop, _stop_–“

Martin goes deathly still beneath him and his hands cease their movement. It’s too much, he’s still too close, too warm and it is almost suffocating.

“Are you okay?” he asks as Jon sits up in the couch and draws away from him, not far enough to be distant but enough to make a polite distance between them. An intense feeling of _don’t touch me_ is surging through Jon’s head and he hates the fact that it is directed towards Martin of all possible people. 

“Yes,” Jon says. “No. Maybe? I don’t– I don’t want to.”

Martin’s face shifts from a petrified expression into one of relief.

“Oh, okay,” he says and sits up as well on his side of the couch. “That’s– that’s fine. I didn’t hurt you or anything?”

_Hurt me? What kind of dumb question is that?_ Jon thinks but decides against saying it out loud.

“No, I’m fine. All good. I’m just…” Jon sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Okay,” Martin says again, like he perfectly comprehends the situation. “That’s fine. Promise.”

Jon groans softly and rolls his eyes, letting his head drop back against the couch.

“No, you don’t _understand_,” he explains impatiently and doesn’t let Martin interrupt with any more bright accepting comments. “I’m not in the mood right now, but I want to be. I want to touch you, sometimes have sex with you, but I don’t want to right now. I don’t want to, but I _wish_ I did.”

“…okay, maybe I don’t understand,” Martin admits sheepishly.

“I like touching you. I really like touching you,” Jon tells him and takes care to not use the word ‘love.’ “But I’m just really not- I’m not. Not right now.”

“Okay. Okay,” Martin says softly. “We won’t have sex.”

Reflexively Jon opens his mouth to argue that Martin is saying ‘_okay’_ to something he doesn’t understand,there’s more to it, but then he thinks some more and wonders if it maybe _is_ that simple. It can’t be, surely?

There has to be more to it than Jon not being in the mood, his selective libido that only chooses to make an appearance once a month, once a week at most.

Is it that simple?

“I mean not now at least,” Jon insists, still uncertain that Martin knows what he’s saying. “Sometime later. Because I will want to, but not right now.”

“Jon, it’s _fine_,” Martin says in an authoritative final tone. “I promise.”

Jon runs his tongue along his teeth in thought, considering whether Martin really means it. Everything became too much too quickly, the touch becoming almost smothering when it usually is so wonderful.

“You’re hard though,” Jon says after a moment.

“…that is true,” Martin replies after a pause and shifts slightly in the couch. “Would you mind if I go deal with that?”

“You can–,” Jon swallows thickly, “you can do that here.”

There is suddenly a lurching excited feeling in his chest at the prospect of watching Martin during, only to be at once dampened when Martin frowns and shakes his head.

“I don’t think I can,” he says softly.

“_Why not?_” The compulsion that seeps into the words does so without Jon wanting it to.

“I’ve never done it in front of anyone and I don’t think I could actually do it,” Martin blurts out without a second thought. “It seems utterly terrifying, not just because it’s you.”

Martin’s face goes slack and he reaches up and to touch his mouth.

“Good lord, I’m so sorry,” Jon splutters out and feels his face suddenly become burning hot. “Didn’t mean to do that at all, I don’t know what–“

“It’s fine,” Martin peeps and thumbs at his lower lip. “I suppose it’s called the Voyeur for a reason.”

Jon makes a point to groan very loudly at that.

**Monday, March 27th, 2018**

With the return of Daisy and the escape from the coffin, Jon realizes how much he has come to appreciate the sensation of skin to skin. Not just with Martin but also in form of brushing past Basira, in the knowledge someone else was there, and now with _Daisy_ out of all people putting her head on his shoulder.

There is an intense intimacy there, two people becoming closer because of something so terrible having happened to them both. There was an absence of it after the Unknowing, being pulled apart further and becoming shattered, every face and resemblance a reminder of the horrible thing that had happened to them rather than a reminder that they were not alone.

Jon never realized how embracing and safe company could be: Martin’s hands on him asking him if he was alright after he had returned from the Buried, Daisy refusing to let him be alone, the reminder of another person existing. Even seeing Melanie again counts as an experience, even if it is her staring him from a distance before walking towards a door that isn’t there.

He can’t even bring himself to be concerned of how quickly all of this falls into routine; having lost two ribs, the constant smell of isolation now persuading the Institute, some of his coworkers still wildly distrusting him and the constant looming threat of the apocalypse.

Jon is able to get used to it all, but the fact that Martin is _with him_ still catches him off guard.

***

Daisy has taken to staying in Jon’s proximity, always nearby like some sort of declawed watch dog. Despite her swearing off the Hunt she has retained its characteristics, several times having scared the life out of Jon because she was so damn _quiet_.

‘Are you gonna get lunch today?’ she had asked him yesterday, stood right behind Jon without making a noise and resulting in him violently tossing a scotch tape container across the room. He had grown accustomed to turning around and seeing Daisy lurk somewhere in the background, refusing to sit and even keeping him company as he reads statements, keeping him company in the Archives.

“What’s that _smell_ on you?” Daisy mutters when she’s stood next to him. Jon frowns and reflexively breathes in, catching only the stuffy bright scent of the Archives and dust. He never could get into wearing aftershave or any cologne, avoiding strong scents in his every day to the best of his ability.

Daisy leans in and smells the air surrounding him, and Jon freezes still as she leans in _further_ and he can feel her nose brush against his neck with no regard for his personal space. After a few seconds of having her face far too close to Jon’s throat, she pulls away and scoffs.

“Get out,” she says in soft shock and grabs his shoulder, “he finally went and did it?”

Jon blinks dumbly.

“Did what?” he asks and Daisy laughs sharply, shoving at his arm.

“Martin finally worked up the courage to talk to you about it, huh?” she goes continues with dark amusement. “We were having bets about if he would have the guts to actually do it, you know.”

For the first time in decades, Jonathan Sims is rendered speechless.

The idea of Daisy and the others having placed bets – _bets!_ – on his private life is so affronting he can’t even get enraged. He was aware of some of the gossip going around, but the fact that Martin’s feelings for him were being so openly discussed and joked about was unbeknownst to him.

He had had no idea it was amusing enough for even Daisy to breech the topic.

“He didn’t, _I_ did,” Jon corrects her sourly when he finally finds the ability to speak.

Daisy’s brows fly up and her face splits into a grimace that Jon once upon a time would have associated with being hunted through the woods. It makes him flinch somewhat, suddenly remembering the feeling of having been prey, but Daisy’s muffled laughter is in genuine joy.

“Christ, Sims, when did you grow a pair?” she says. “Didn’t know you had it in you. Good for you both.”

“_Had it in me _– do you think I– of course I had it in me, I do have _some_ social skill.”

Daisy reaches deep into the pocket of her jacket, retrieving her wallet. She unceremoniously digs in it until she gets up a purple twenty pound bill and tries to hand him it.

“What the hell is this for?” Jon asks bluntly and half fears the answer.

Daisy shrugs one shoulder. “Tim was hosting the betting pool. I had twenty on Martin being the one to finally do it, and I don’t know any of Tim’s next of kin, so I guess that’s for you.”

_Of course Tim was the one hosting it,_ Jon thinks bittersweetly and takes the crumpled up note. It is in such poor dirty condition it looks like it survived at least two wars.

“You were betting against me,” he states plainly and Daisy snorts.

“I was, yeah.”

**Tuesday, March 28th, 2018**

There’s another set of keys on Jon’s chain now.

He shows up at Martin’s place before Martin himself is home, opening the door and realizing he is alone. The knowledge hits him firmly, being alone in another person’s home has a vulnerability to it so intense it feels almost perverse.

A repressed part of Jon wants to go snooping, to let himself take in the entirety of Martin’s house and to truly Know every part of him. Every crevice in the walls, the history behind every stain, details of every piece of furniture. Jon sees a cobweb in the corner of a ceiling and is hit by a flash of intense rage that incites him into brushing it away.

The sort of possessiveness he feels about Martin is new and frightens him, and Jon doesn’t know how much of it is _him_ and how much of it is the Beholding not wanting to lose another avatar. It feels decidedly inhuman, a roaring buzzing sensation in the back of his head that hisses out _mine_ whenever the threat of Martin being taken by another entity arises. As hypocritical as it is, the idea of Peter in any way coming too close to Martin makes his blood practically boil.

Jon wants him, and what more he realizes with a start, is the Beholding wants Martin just as well, to know him inside and out and to _have_ him. To drink in the knowledge of what makes Martin Blackwood into the person that he is.

He doesn’t know where the separation between the two lie, where his love for Martin begins and where the Eye’s ends, if the only reason he is here at all is because he just wants to fuck the Lonely off of him. Jon thinks of Lukas splitting him open on his fingers and thinking of it as little more than _playing with Elias ‘toys’_, and the horrifying thought that that is all there is to the Forsaken and the Beholding.

Gingerly he can almost regret the first time they kissed just on this reason alone, just because of the myriad of internal philosophical debate it has wrought him. _Almost_ – because he doesn’t regret any part of it. Getting fucked over a desk in the Pyrrhic search for information, forcing Martin to come to his flat and even having to hear the horrible cold rage in his voice. Separately some of the decisions are regrettable and even stupid, sure, but altogether Jon realizes he would do it again.

When Martin comes home Jon all but throws himself at him, pushing them both up against the wall and kissing him fervently like a cat rubbing its scent. And Martin hesitates for one painful moment, before he gives up second thoughts and puts both arms around Jon’s waist and lifts him up.

“Christ–!” Jon hisses out in surprise and tosses both arms around Martin’s neck to balance himself. The confidence disappears from Martin’s eyes for a moment.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a familiar nasal tone, and Jon Knows that Martin has asked him that word-by-word over a hundred times in the years they’ve known one another.

“I’m good,” Jon tells him and grins slightly, “don’t stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melanie, sorry for sidelining you in this, i’ll make it up to you sometime in the future
> 
> it can possibly be seen from the quality of various chapters but all of this is essentially a oneshot with the most extensive planning for various chapters having been notes written in the dark going “they talk during sex”
> 
> and that’s all I got. if you're reading this it means you probably read the whole thing and if you did – wow, thanks? wild!
> 
> Update from March: [the threesome](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097829)


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